Freeloading Traveler

HOME LEAVE!

2010-10-15T16:28:00.001-07:00

The bluest skies you'll ever see are in Seattle....

Anyone but me remember that song? It was the opening for a short-lived TV show, BRING ON THE BRIDES. My sisters were crazy for the star, Bobby Sherman. I was really young and don't remember anything except the theme song.

Anyway, while I was in Seattle the skies were pretty blue. I understand this happens only in the summer during the seven days that I am in town. I was in Seattle from July 8 to July 15 visiting my Seattle (formerly New York City) friends Margaret, Andrew, and their perfect child.

Like Abidjan, I spent a lot of time outside - walking, eating, and drinking. Unlike Abidjan, I was not making friends with thousands of flies. And the water didn't smell bad. Oh, and Margaret and Andrew were there and we had good conversations and watched bad reality TV. The Lord and Master isn't much for conversation, yet.

Then it was off to LA, where I rented a car and drove to Three Rivers to see my friend Carson, her partner David/Dark, their assorted pets, and Sequoia National Park.
Here I am next to a fallen sequoia and a small waterfall:

Here's Carson atop a big, big rock.

The next day we went to a snow-melt fed river to sun and swim. You know what snow-melt means? It means cold. You know what else it means? One heck of a strong current. I am a water person, and I LOVED this, but the cold and the strength of the water really took me by surprise.

Carson and Dark's dog. Who's a good dog? He's a good dog.

Out of Africa - for awhile now

2010-10-15T15:36:00.001-07:00

Goodbye Abidjan, land of winged termites.
No more sweeping up the wings in rainy season.

The day I left Abidjan - June 24 - there were flash floods. My only concern was how would this affect traffic on the way to the airport. Really, you get very focused when it's time to go. I had reservations at a hotel in Paris, folks! I was meeting my sister Pat.

Here is Pat at a cafe near our hotel.

Every time I go to Paris, I climb something. This time we climbed to the dome of the Parthenon. The view was (as is usually the case with places that are popular for tourists to climb) worth it. Though I admit this view of the parking lot is lacking.

I wanted to go to the Parthenon because Louise Braille is buried there. Louis Braille is one of those things I happen to know a lot about. I had an excellent childrens book on him when I was little, and in Grad School, I wrote a play on him.

Braille invented braille when he was 12 or 13. Two theories - he was a musician and wanted to write music; he was a kid and wanted to pass notes in school. I like the later better. He was actually buried in his hometown, but in the 1950's when France finally got around to making braille the official alphabet for the blind (sighted people kept insisting on raised letters - braille was a grass roots movement) they interned him in the Parthenon.
Here is a bust made from his death mask:
And a copy of his signature. Yes, he was blind.
So give him a break on the handwriting.
So, the thing everyone wants to know (everyone who knows about my interest in Louise Braille) is: Is his name written in braille on his tomb?
The answer is no.

I honestly cannot think what idiotic philistine was in charge of the decision NOT to put Louis Braille's name in friggin' braille on the tomb that HONORS him for inventing BRAILLE, but whoever they are, I'm sure they were an arrogant twit. And don't give me any, "Oh, but all the tombs in the Parthenon are the same, blah, blah, heroes of France, blah, blah." His name should be in raised dots, damn it.

Ahem. Happier thoughts. Here is Pat at the Church of St. Sulpice. It has one of the world's largest organs (which sounds kind of dirty). We attended mass, listened to the organ concert, then lined up to go up into the organ loft. I thought it was neat, but I know nothing about organs (again, sounds dirty). Pat, however, played the organ back in her Catholic schoolgirl days, so she had lots of questions for the organist.
I had no real interest, so I took this picture.
And now it's time to say goodbye to Europe.
Posts on my exciting home-leave in the United States of America are on the way.

Alternate Route

2010-05-23T07:08:00.001-07:00

I used to always take Plant Road to work, but lately I've been favoring le Rue Alpha Blondy.
Here is the route on a nice day. This is a suburban neighborhood. I pass a church, schools, and businesses such as this drop-off laundry mat.

It wasn't terribly busy this particular morning. Sometimes the line is loaded down with stuff. As you can see, it's all done by hand.

And this maquis. You can get fish, chicken, and bush rat. Call for reservations! They handle marriages, anniversaries, and baptism parties!

One day there was a huge traffic jam. I had never seen anything like it. As you can see, we have three lanes going down the hill. Technically, there is only one lane. It all choked up at the intersection of Rue Alpha Blondy.

Plus you have cars and baccas (small commuter buses) turning on to the road.

From both sides! Honestly, it is not usually this bad. I think there was a big accident on Plant Road this day, so there were three times the amount of cars on Rue Alpha Blondie.

These two guys came out into the intersection and started directing traffic. I tipped them 1000 CFA (Currently about $2).

Rue Alpha Blondy is named for his house which is quite grand. The first time I saw it I thought it was a mosque. Rue Alpha Blondy has been getting worse and worse since I've come to Abidjan. I've been through one rainy season and am currently in the middle of another. The road is deteriorating.

This is Alpha Blondy. I think he should spend some of his money to repair the road. Yes, sure, the government should be doing that, but they aren't going to. He should show a little noblesse oblige and/or community good will.

Just this past week there were some massive rain storms. The pot holes at the Rue Alpha Blondy have become one giant pot hole.

When I drove through this on Friday it was a huge puddle. When I drove through today (Sunday) I could see just how bad the pot hole is. It stretches across the whole road, and is up to a foot deep in places. Sigh. I might have to go back to Plant Road if just for the sake of my tires.

Good Govt Means Good Plumbing

2010-05-23T03:34:00.000-07:00

Moronou is a small village located on the highway between Abidjan and Yamoussoukro. We gave them a small grant to restore the village's two wells.

Another success story. They got the money, they fixed the wells, the village has water. Not all of our small grants work out so well. Heck, my first trip to see Self-Help projects in the Western Coastal region was not nearly so positive. That's why we do these inspection trips.

Here is the logo I designed on the well wall. It cracks me up that I keep seeing this whenever I go to a Self-Help project. My guess is that they put the walls and gates around the well to keep the animals out.

The first well is in the market place. Here is the street the well is on (you can see it on the left - the blue building.

Here is our driver Henri buying produce in the marketplace. Food is much cheaper outside of Abidjan.

The second well is across the highway and it's main purpose is to supply the clinic and school. This woman was using the second well to fill plastic bags of water. She will probably sell them on the side of the road to thirsty truck drivers and passengers on buses.

Of course we met with the Chief and Village Big Wigs. They thanked us for helping with the wells. We expressed our pleasure at seeing the wells so well (hah!) managed. They said that now they would like a water tank so that they can have pressurized water. We said that sounds like a great idea, and they can apply for another grant which will be reviewed. We asked for permission to take leave. We shook many hands. We then headed back to Abidjan.

Centre Mie N’Gou for the Physically Handicaped

2010-05-23T02:53:00.000-07:00

Ready to Represent!
Here I am at the Hotel President in the capitol Yamoussoukro. I'm ready to head out and view more Self Help Projects.

We went to the Centre Mie N'Gou for the Physcially Handicapped. Before the political crisis it was a top rehabilitation facility for the handicapped. Here's the view from the laundry area.

Sister Miryam is working to bring the place back. The Canadians rebuilt the physical therapy room and donated the new equipment. That is the only part that is being used right now by day patients.

The facility is getting ready to take in borders again. The French Military rebuilt the private rooms. The Somalian UN soldiers refurbished the bathrooms. Still looking for a donor to restore the childrens dormitory.

Sister Miryam is quite the fund-raiser. She is absolutely determined to get the center back to it's glory days. Despite the center's facilities going to pot, she had photo albums full of pictures of children and adults who had been helped. Often it's getting a child a leg brace or an adult a wheel chair.

The US has given a small grant to buy educational materials. Here are the school kits that have been purchased. Books, paper, pencils, pens, etc.

And we bought two sewing machines. This is for retraining education - helping the newly handicapped to develop a new skill.

A gift from the American People! I designed this fabulous sign in about 20 minutes when I first got to Cote d'Ivoire. Now that I'm traveling around I keep seeing it. Had I know I would be leaving such an imprint on the country, I might have put a bit more effort into it.

Where the Chocolate Comes From

2010-05-23T01:47:00.001-07:00

This is a cocoa pod.
And that's my hand holding it. Inside are the cocoa beans from which chocolate is made. Mars Inc. get's 40% off all their chocolate from Cote d'Ivoire. Think about that the next time you eat an M&M.

What was I doing in the cocoa region? I was visiting a Self-Help project. A school for the children of cocoa farmers in the village of Petit Yamoussoukro.

Because the US does not recognize Cote d'Ivoire's unelected government, there is no aid to Cote d'Ivoire. However, there are small humanitarian grants to Non-Government Organizations. I volunteered to be the observer for one of these Self Help projects. Petit Yamoussoukro got a small grant (about $10,000 US) four years ago to start a school. They have been wildly successful, expanding from first grade to first though fourth. From one building to four. From one teacher to four. We just gave them another grant to buy desks and "kits" (workbooks, notebooks, pencils, crayons, etc. for each student).

The cocoa farmers were taking their children into the fields with them. Not to work - this wasn't a case of child labor - but because what else were they going to do with them? So, the school was embraced by the community. In fact, the school is so successful that neighboring villages are sending their children. There are now 140 students.

Here's George - the Self-Help Coordinator - standing in one of the four classrooms which are traditional buildings made from wood, mud, and palm fronds.

What is very impressive is that the village cultivates a field of rice and uses the profits to support the school. They are doing well enough to build their new classroom out of concrete.

That's a pile of 12 desks that arrived at the village broken. They were damaged on the road. Below is a picture of the road. This is a good part of the road. It takes a little over an hour to get to Petit Yamoussoukro on dirt roads.

We stopped by the carpenter's shop in Oume and spoke to the carpenter. He promised to send a workman to the village the next week to fix the desks. We also stopped by to talk to the local government official about getting federal funds to help train the teachers. Luckily, George was there to do most of the talking. I just sat and looked representative of the American People.

I (the American People) received a lovely outfit. I got to keep this as it was an official gift from a national, state, or local government (i.e.; the Chief and the school board) and has a value under $335. I was pouring sweat.

And a rooster. I did not keep the rooster. I told George (our Self-Help Coordinator) and the Henri (the driver) that they could duke it out for the rooster. Mr. Rooster is now running around George's back yard.

The nice thing about cocoa trees, is they do not do well in clear-cut fields. They like shade, and other plants. So they are environmentally friendly. Cocoa is such a complex flavor that it has been impossible to reproduce it chemically. So, the production of cocoa is a big concern to US companies like Mars and Hershey. Mars, especially, is investing heavily in Cote d'Ivoire. They want to eradicate any hint of child labor, and make sure that the "witches broom" virus that has devastated Brazil's cocoa industry does not infect the West African trees.

Incinerator/Power Plant/Statement

2010-01-24T08:30:00.000-08:00

This is a common sight in Abidjan. It's a pile of trash and garbage. Eventually, someone will set fire to it. I live in a very nice neighborhood and we have trash pile that gets burned every once in a while.

When I was in Vienna, my sister's boss asked me about Abidjan and I brought up the pollution. He immediately suggested that Pat take me to see Vienna's incinerator/power plant. Pat thought that was a great idea. They both told me it was something to see. I thought it would have a big flame that looked pretty at night. Nope, fire has nothing to do with its appeal.
Vienna's incinerator looks like this.This is Fernwarm Wien. Here is my theory. The architect got high, watched Yellow Submarine, and then designed the perfect incinerator/power plant for the Land of Oz.

Unfortunately, there are no tours and there is no gift shop. I would have so bought post cards, mugs, key chains, and magnets. There was a poster in the subway station, and if I could have found it for sale anywhere, I would have bought the poster.

It sits on the Danube River. There are walkways around the whole facility, so you can get a lovely view of the river and the building. It's not in any of the guide books. The guide books need to get cracking.

It is, in many ways, just a normal incinerator/power plant with lots of decoration. But if you're going to have public utilities, they might as well make you stop and stare in a good way.

I think a lot of my excitement/love was due to my current situation. The pollution in Abidjan is so awful, and it really gets me down. Vienna was so clean. And on top of that, they took the time and the money to make their incinerator into a wacky artistic statement. The people of Vienna really love their city.

My Lovely Home

2010-01-16T04:00:00.001-08:00

Well, it's time to show everyone my house in Abidjan.

Here is a shot of the dining area and what I call the "sub-living room." It's two steps lower than the dining area, and it where I watch TV.

This is the regular living room. The internet cord is here, so this is where I am sitting RIGHT NOW while typing this entry. The stool is by the window because I was working on adjusting the way the curtains are hung (long story re: what were these people who hung these curtains thinking?). The lamp is on the floor because there is only one power outlet in this corner and the internet connection is using it. I should just put the lamp in the spare room.

I took those pictures from this balcony. It is known as the Eva Peron Balcony, and no, I did not give it that name. People come and go at Foreign Service Posts, but the houses stay in the housing pool for years. So, when I got here and people asked me where I lived. I'd say, "I'm in Chris Lopez's house." And they would reply, "Oh, the Eva Peron Balcony."

What's up on the second floor, beside the balcony? Well, there is a bedroom.

With a balcony that looks out onto a wall topped with razor wire.

The en-suite bathroom features the toilet paper roll holder IN the shower.
And the shower soap-dish outside of the shower. Note placement of shower rod vs. soap dish.

Downstairs I have three bedrooms. One is used to store stuff.

One is used for ironing.

And one is used by me. Sorry I didn't make the bed.

The best part of the house is my porch. I have been using it a lot more recently. Especially when I was sick it was really nice to loaf in my hammock and read.

I have a second patio built over the garage. I never use this one. But it was very popular at my Friday the 13th - Bon Voyage Virginia party I threw last year. My garage is on the street level, then you walk up stairs to my house and yard.

View of my neighborhood from the second patio.

My yard. I never use this. See the three plam trees that are outside my wall? I call my house, "La Maison de trois palmes." You can also make out my across-the street neighbor's wall (at street level), which gives you an idea of how high I am above the road.

I have been warned that I will have a small apartment in Munich. It will probably only have two bedrooms. I am actually looking forward to that.

A Salute to Battery-Operated Clocks

2010-01-16T03:31:00.001-08:00

My mother's influence can be seen in my devotion to battery operated clocks. Their advantages are many. Power outage? No problem. Need a travel clock? No you don't, just toss that one in your suitcase. The plug is over there? Well, you'll need an extension cord - or not!

We had a beach cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina - where the power outages were many. Since my mother also taught me that every room should have a clock and a box of tissues, every bedside table had a battery operated clock. I remember thinking, "It's nice not having to deal with cords."

Here is my bedside table battery operated clock.
It fits right in with the box of tissues, glass of water, and malaria pills.

Then I went to college. And of course, I didn't read the welcome pamphlet, but Mom sure did. And she bought me a battery-operated clock to take to college. My alarm never failed to go off because there was a power outage. And there were no cords getting in my way. Or fighting over the limited amount of plug space. I think that clock lasted about ten years.

So now I'm in the Foreign Service and let me tell you, the rest of the world does not believe in multiple outlets. And if you're in West Africa, you will deal with a lot of power outages. And I hear folks at the embassy talking about having to reset their clocks and I just marvel that they don't have battery operated clocks.

Here is my kitchen clock. I bought this cheap-o at IKEA. Considering that the clock on the stove always runs fast (probably something to do with the power surges) and I got tired of re-setting the microwave clock over, and over, and over, this baby is a life-saver.

Another IKEA cheap-o. It also has an alarm, so it could be my back-up travel/bedside clock. This sits near the couch where I watch TV/knit. I usually do this in my PJs, so I'm not wearing my watch. And due to the power outages, I have never set the clock on my VCR.

I got this one at either Target or Wal-Mart. This is the semi-classy one, and I paid more that $5 for it. I like that it spins on it's stand so I can angle it. It is usually set to face me so when I'm lying on my couch in the living room, I can glance up and see the time.

A clock in the bathroom is great. This one has a suction cup so I can just stick it to the mirror. It fell off a few times, but I eventually learned to wet the suction cups before putting it up. Now when I have to change the battery, I have to really work to pull it off. This was from BedBathandBeyond.com.

My Morning Commute

2009-11-09T12:09:00.000-08:00

Every morning I drive along a section of the Boulevard de France that we call Plant Road. There are a lot of plant vendors on this section of the road. They don't have a right to the land - they're squatters - and their wares are right up against the walls surrounding people's homes.Check out the shed. The roof is plastic tarps and clothes hanging out to dry.

Here's a guy watering his plants. I can take pictures because I'm usually stuck in traffic.

And here is a lettuce lady. I call them lettuce ladies because they bundle up the lettuce in beautiful columns, wrap them up, and stick them on their heads. When the little bus comes, they toss the lettuce up on the roof, and ride off.

That's the lagoon in the background. This area has been cleared to be developed with homes. There are a lot of fields along the lagoon. They water the plants with water from the lagoon, and the lagoon is horribly polluted. It's still pretty.

The other day there was an accident. You can see the car standing practically straight up (nose in the ground) surrounded by rubber-neckers. I thought there was a back-up, but people had simply pulled over, parked, and then walked over to take a look.

Habitat for Humanity

2009-10-23T12:16:00.000-07:00

Yes, he's wearing a lady's one-piece swimsuit over his clothes.

Why? Well, I guess this young man thought it was an appropriately colorful outfit for celebration. And it was a good day to celebrate. The Americans, as part of the Interfaith Day of Community Service, were arriving with Habitat for Humanity to help build houses in their village.

Here are the Priest and Iman working together to build a wall. How interfaith is that? Turns out the Iman is quite the mason.
Here is swimsuit guy helping out at the brick-making area. Along with the Americans, the local embassy staff, and our invited interfaith guests, the villagers helped out too.

The rear view.

Here I am carrying a brick. I had to get up at 5:45, to get to the embassy at 6:30. We left at 7:00 and the drive to the village took almost three hours. That's a long way of saying I couldn't get my contacts in. So, I had to wear glasses. So, I had to wear a hat.
I have yet to meet a camera-shy child in Cote d'Ivoire.

They'll just hop right into the picture with you. The man on the right in the red hard hat runs Habitat for Humanity in Cote d'Ivoire. He learned about it on a trip to the United States, then came back and started the chapter here. It's been highly successful.

Afterwards, we had lunch at the Chief's. He has a very, very nice house. We brought some food and the villagers brought some, and everyone had a good time. I made 150 snickerdoodles. They were a big hit.

This was one of my best days in Cote d'Ivoire. I worked really hard on this outing (I was volun-told onto the committee) and it was a blast to get out of Abidjan and into the more typical Ivorian atmosphere. This was my first time in a village, I shook hands with all the important people (I have no idea who they were), applauded the speeches, did some physical labor, and used my sunscreen so I didn't get burned. It was also really fun to hang out with the Ivoirian embassy staff.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

2009-07-19T12:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I went out on a boat for a sunset cruise of the Abidjan Lagoon. It was beautiful and I had a great time.

No thoughtful comments, observations or commentary. Riding on a boat through the lagoon is really fun. You see the city lights (and it looks pretty at night), pass under the bridges...

... and pass through the port of Abidjan.

But you also see some of beautiful green areas. Here is one of the fancier houses located on the islands in the Lagoon.

Sure, it's toxic, and I'll probably develop some horrible rash from the occasional splash of spray, but it was pretty, and fun, and definitely worth it.

No there, there.

2009-05-24T14:31:00.000-07:00

"Yamoussoukro has no embassies, ministries or significant commercial life, even though it has been [Cote d'Ivoire's] capital since 1983. Originally a village called Ngokro with no more than 500 inhabitants, it has grown because of the whim of Felix Houphouet-Boigny, who happened to be borne hearabouts and who wantd to glorify himself, his family and ancestors. With its six-lane highways (bordered by more than 10,000 streetlights) leading nowhere, and its grandiose monuments set just far enough apart to be incovenient for walking, it's a lasting testament to Africa's greatest curse - the Big Boss, who can get away with anything."

- Lonely Planet

I usually use my own words, but this selection from Lonley Planet really does sum up the insanity that is Yamoussoukro. First, let's take a look at it's main tourist attraction, The Basilique de Notre Dame de la Paix.

Yes, it's a replica of St. Peter's in Rome. Except it's bigger. Oh, and the country only has about one million Catholics. Very few of whom live in Yamoussoukro. John Paul II was not amused.

John Paul II agreed to come to the dedication of Notre Dame so as not to tick off the less than one million Catholics in Cote d'Ivoire. He extracted a promise from Houphouet-Boigny that a hospital would be built close by.

A shot of the some of the exterior plaza (which is larger than St. Peter's). Note, there is absolutely nothing around it. No hospital.

The major artistic triumph of Notre Dame are the stained glass windows. Here you see Jesus with Houphouet-Boigny - the only African depicted in the entire church.

I went to Yamoussoukro with Richard Roberts who works with me.
We stayed at the Hotel President (guess which president it refers to).
We had a sub-par meal at the top of the tower. There are several restaurants, bars, and a night club - all of which closed by 10 or 10:30 pm.

The pool is still quite nice, and it wasn't crowded. I doubt the hotel is every really crowded.
The lower building (behind the pool) is where we stayed.

My room. Very modern/Austin Powers. Richard's room was done in shades of purple.

They are not trying to be retro. It's just a time capsul of what was in style.
The radio didn't work.

This is the parking lot of the Foundation Houphouet-Boigny. From here you can see the "city" spread out before you. It was supposed to be the headquarters of a grant-bestowing association.

It has an auditorium that can seat several thousand, an office for the president, VIP lounges, meeting rooms, you name it. It doesn't seem to get used very much, though there had been some event the night before (they were sweeping up trash while we took the tour - the tour consisted of Richard and me). There are signs of neglect everywhere.The women's rooms were smelly. None of the men's rooms had toilet paper.
It was a very weird weekend.

Boot

2009-02-21T02:28:00.000-08:00

I went with a bunch of co-workers to Ghana for the Presidents' Day long weekend. We stayed at Axim Beach resort. On Sunday, we took a walk through the fishing village to the Axim fort. I started taking pictures of boats, and I have to say, this was my favorite.

Though I appreciated the straight to the point style of this one.

And this one as well.

There were several boats with American Flags.

And there were businesses with the American Flag. I'm not sure what Blood of Jesus Can Set Your Free is selling, as it was Sunday, and it was closed.

Shopping in Cote d'Ivoire

2009-02-04T11:07:00.000-08:00

I have complained about the lack of cheap souvenirs in Cote d'Ivoire. And I stand by that. Souvenirs that should cost $1 run $6-$10. And they are usually pretty shabby. And completely unoriginal. One factor is Ivoirian money being tied to the Euro - a plastic butter dish that costs $2.50 in the US runs $10 here. Also, I'm sure the lack of tourists contributes to the lack of quality and origniality as well. You can get a very badly carved giraffe with no problem - but there are no giraffes in Cote d'Ivoire (could be why they are so badly carved). Meanwhile, this country is lousy with all types of geckos and lizzards. Yet, there are no gecko-themes souvenirs to be had.

But, if you want to spend a bit of money - minimum $15 to start - you can pick up some nice things.

I got this pot at an embassy-sponsored craft fair. All the vendors were high end.

I hadn't seen anything like it in the craft-vendors on the Road to Bassam.
I also got this ceramic turtle from the same vendor.

I use him to keep my bedroom door open. He's not particularly "native," but he is cute. I don't remember what these cost me.

Today we had another embassy-sponsored vendor in, and I loved all of his stuff! I walked in and saw this seat/traditional pillow and just had to have it.
Original asking price, $70.

I was told the animal is an antelope. Note, no horns.

But I was told his was an antelope too. Note, horns.

I think the vendor knows the word antelope.
Anyway, this one's original asking price was $30.
I got both for a little less. If I had walked away and come back in a half hour I probably would have done better. But I am a lousy bargainer.

Paging Mr. Bond

2009-01-18T13:28:00.000-08:00

If, back when Sean Connery was playing Bond, the producers had decided to set some dastardly plan to hold the world hostage for $1,000,000 in exotic West Africa, they would have chose Abidjan. And Bond would have stayed at the Hotel Ivoire.

The 60's was Abidjan's heyday. And the architecture reflects that. But no place really gets the 60's sensibility of "modern" Africa better than the Hotel Ivoire. Bond would have walked by the ice-skating rink(!), worked out in the gym, dined in the rooftop restaurant and probably met CIA agent Felix Lieter at the bar in the bowling alley for a Vodka Martini.

The pictures do not do justice to the level of neglect the Hotel Ivoire has suffered. The pictures make the place look terrific. But if you could see it in real life - well it is in serious need of a major remodel. In fact, it has been bought and it's said the investors plan to bring Hotel Ivoire back to it's former glory. I hope, really hope, they keep the 60's motif. It would be a crime to just rip it all out.

The people over here on the right bowling are all embassy folks. We made up half of the patrons, and I assure you the place can easily handle 200. You can get really good burgers here - but they ran out so I got a club sandwich instead.

The bowling balls turned our hands black. So, we all went to wash our hands. Some people made the mistake of going to the restrooms in the rear and down the stairs. The lights don't work, the rooms are "sweaty," and because they originally served the ice rink, they have rubber matting. It really makes you feel you stand a good chance of being axed by a psycho killer while using them.

Here's the scoring board from a league game from a few years back. One of the staff told us that they haven't had a league in 4 years. I think this board pre-dates that.

The Ram of the American People

2009-01-02T23:58:00.000-08:00

Meet Boule (pronounced Bow-Lay) the Ram of the American People. He was given by the people of Boule, Cote d'Ivoire to a visiting high-up American official. He was supposed to be lunch, but somehow ended up at the home of two of our embassy's officers. The first thing they did was give him a bath. Then a hair cut. He is one snazzy looking ram.

Note Boule's horns. If you get butted head-on (which happened to me) it doesn't really hurt since you're getting mostly forehead. If you get a side-butt (which happened to me) you get a nice bruise on your leg from the horns. So, his caretaker jokingly requested I knit Boule some cozies for his horns.

Honestly, I don't think they will really help protect anyone from those horns. In fact, the pointy ends kept poking out of the cozies. Several people have suggested stuffing bubble wrap in the cozies.

And the cozies were too long, despite the fact that I had measured very carefully.
Still I like the pom-poms.

I was originally going to do buttons to keep the cozies on, but I couldn't master button holes. So, I used ribbons instead. I had originally thought that ribbons would be too humiliating for the ram, but let's face it. He's wearing cozies. What could be worse? In the end, he didn't seem to mind. He got some popcorn, and that's all that really matters to a goat/ram.

Meine Geburtstag

2009-01-02T02:34:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not dating! This is the owner of Le Bavarois (the Bavarian) or Wa Wi as it is commonly called. He was so delighted when 22 people showed up for what would have otherwise been a very slow Saturday after Christmas that he went home, changed into his lederhosen and returned.

Saturday, December 27 was my 43rd birthday. And yes, I spent it in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire in a German Restaurant where the whole staff speaks French. Such the international evening!

The sausages are fantastic, the hollandaise sauce could use some work. Though they have a tap, there is no keg attached. The staff stand behind the tap, crack open the cans, and fill up your big glass. But it is real German beer and it is nice and cold. One of the marine's commented that the sauerkraut was not as good as his mom's - but how can you compete with mom?

For the record, I received pot holders, a Vienna t-shirt (where I'll be for birthday 2009), and icicle-style Christmas lights. Some of the young people then went out dancing. I went home and made some phone calls. It was a good birthday.

Welcome to the Monkey House

2008-12-26T15:07:00.000-08:00

There is not a lot to do in Cote d’Ivoire. Most of the country is controlled by armed militias – well controlled might be too strong of a word. But we can go to the beach, which means Grand Bassam or Assini.
It takes about 45 minutes to get to Grand Bassam. The drive itself is pretty amazing. You can see people living in shack cities by the ocean, burning piles of garbage, souvenir shacks (no real good souvenirs), palm groves, and resort/restaurants that have not recovered from the political crisis.
However, once you're in Grand Bassam proper, there are plenty of these places, and they are doing pretty well. I've been going to this one a lot with my friends Sarah and Dan. We call it the Monkey Tree place.

Because there are all these wooden monkeys hanging in the tree.
It's impossible to get a good shot of the whole tree so I concentrated on the monkeys. Anyway, the place has a restaurant, bar, rooms, pool, and access to the beach. If you are staying or eating or drinking there you can use the pool and the beach access.
Alas, I never see anything this cute or interesting for sale in the souvenier shacks on the way to Grand Bassam. I would have loved to have found something like this (but smaller) for my first Ivoirian Chrismtas tree.

The Cabs of Abidjan

2008-11-15T06:07:00.001-08:00

Bonjour -
I have had no personal internet access since arriving in Cote d'Ivoire. But with the help of a friend, I got my pictures downloaded onto a machine with internet. Then, I wrote everything up, told the computer to publish the post and -- poof! It vanished.

Anyway, here is my first blog entry from Africa - The Cabs of Abidjan! Or, God Is My Co-Pilot.

To the point. Pardon. Every cab driver should be saying that.

I am not sure what this one means, so if anyone can translate, I would appreciate it.

"I thank God."

And I too thank God that you didn't take out my rearview mirror.

"Sacred!"

Note the black smoke pouring out of the exhuast. This is why on every pretty days, I keep my windows rolled up when driving.

"The Eraser."

As in, God erases sins.

"Father, Glorious is Your Name."

God is My Co-Pilot

2008-11-13T02:06:00.000-08:00

Bonjour!
Finally I am posting to my blog from lovely Côte d'Ivoire. Abidjan has many cabs, and many of them have religious sayings on the back of them. And quite frankly, given the way they drive, this is not a bad idea.

I'm not sure what this one means.

Any ideas or translations would be appreciated.

This is the perfect thing to be written on the back of a cab. Just think, you're furious because they are cutting you off, or turning across your path when you have the light, or passing you on the right side of the road (IE: the sidewalk) and then you see, "Pardon" and you forgive them.

" Sacred!" I especially like this one because of the plume of black demon smoke.

"Thank God." An excellent cue card. This is what you say after the cab narrowly avoids hitting you.

I think this means, "The Eraser." Not sure how that applies to God.

Perhaps it's a comment on God forgiving sins.

"Father, Glorious is Your Name"

Some others I have seen but wasn't able to get pictures of include:

God is the Beginning and the End

Little by Little

God is Good

God is Great

and

Prais Allah

Amazingly enough, I have not seen, "God is My Co-Pilot."

A Weekend In New York

2008-05-26T17:43:00.001-07:00

I went up to New York City for the Memorial Day Weekend. One of the places I had to go was Florent in the Meat Packing District.

When it opened in the 1970's, Florent was a 24/7 operation and its customers were club kids, transvestite hookers and the guys who worked in the Meat Packing industry. Once I went there, when the area was only just starting to get gentrified, and the waitress asked us if we would like to eat outside. Considering the view was of a bloody sidewalk across the street, I declined.

Well, the neighborhood has changed and the rent on the space was raised to $30,000 a month, so the owner is going to close it down on June 30.

The first time I went to Florent I was with a group that had reservations at a Chelsea restaurant. We arrived and the place was empty. Three of our party had not yet arrived and they would not seat us. One of the guys was furious. Grousing about how Chelsea had become way to obnoxious, he insisted we got to Florent. We did, and I went back many more times.

Once the song "My Baby Takes The Morning Train" by Sheena Easton came on the radio. Awful, catchy song that it is, people started singing along. One of the waiters turned up the radio and the whole restaurant sang along.

I will miss it. The mussels, the burgers, the breakfasts, and the desserts.

I also visited Korea Street for bibimbop, and China Town for Dim Sum. There was a Falun Gong parade in China Town.

Finally, I saw my cat, Ming.

Fun on Friday Morning

2008-05-02T13:48:00.000-07:00

Its the Foreign Service Institute!

It got up to 81 degrees today, so I celebrated by putting on a short-sleeved dress and breaking out the legs. I got comments on how dressed up I was, but honestly it felt so good to be out of trousers and jackets.

We tend to get in early at FSI. There is an 8:15 shuttle and a 9:00 shuttle. Since training starts at 9:00, we have to be on the 8:15. So, we usually have a good twenty-five minutes to hang around. I decided I would go out and get some pictures of the Ben Franklin statue (he was our first diplomat) and the unofficial mascots - the geese.

My fellow OMS in training, Debi came with me and we got a bit silly. You can't tell, but I am putting bunny ears behind Mr. Franklin's head.

I have a joke about the geese really being robots that spy on people. Anyway, here is a picture of two of the plants trying to gain entrance into the building.

Cote D'Ivoire - Not Ireland

2008-04-23T14:41:00.000-07:00

As you can see, I have figured out how to post photos!

Above is not a picture of the Irish flag. This is the flag of Cote D'Ivoire - where I will be stationed for my inaugural post in the Foreign Service. At the Flag Day for the 100 Specialist Class at the George P. Schultz Center in Northern Virginia this flag caused much confusion. When it was held up everyone in the class was shouting "Ireland!" Then my name was called. Many classmates have told me they wish they had a photo of my face. Not only was Ireland not in my top three of posts where I would like to be assigned, it wasn't even an option. I was thinking, "Well I'll go, but gosh, you could have given me some advanced warning."

Even after the confusion was cleared up, several people in the class still thought that I was going to Ireland, or that I had been mistakenly given the wrong flag.

The difference is this: Ireland goes: green, white, orange. Cote D'Ivoire goes: orange, white, green.

Here is the display of 55 flags for the 55 members of the 100 Specialist Class. The water bottle was not handed out, and will continue to serve in the United States.

And below is a Stanley Crane which lent its name to my last posting. The Stanley Crane is from southern Africa and I liked the weird shape of it's head. I'm guessing it was "discovered" by the Stanley who found Dr. Livingston. I'm also guessing that none of the African natives ever called it a Stanley Crane.

Look! A Stanley Crane!

2008-04-22T13:27:00.000-07:00

Today I went to the National Zoo. I should have been working on my computer courses for my FSI training, but it was too pretty of a day, and the zoo is only a subway ride away.

I love the National Zoo. We went here all the time when I was a kid, a teenager, and later when I became a professional aunt. It's free. There are plenty of bathrooms, benches, green spaces, and water fountains. It's free. No wonder we went ALL THE TIME when I was a kid. It's free.

Yes, they charge you for parking, but I took the Metro.

The zoo has changed. They are putting in a giant elephant walk so that the elephants can saunter back and forth from various habitats instead of hanging out in one. They got rid of the fake footprints you used to follow to the exhibits (panda paws to the pandas, bird feet to the bird house, flippers to the seals, etc.). The place is still full of Mennonites (not Amish - you can tell they're not Amish because they are at the zoo and texting). The sign, "Coins Kill" which used to show a seal's stomach full of quarters is gone. Now it's a sign about plastic bags and the damage they are doing to the environment.

I have to give the sign-makers at the National Zoo credit. One sign shows a bird laying on its back with it's head turned in a way which suggests its neck is broken: "This bird isn't dead." the sign reads. "This is just how they like to sun themselves." Just when I'm thinking that someone didn't hose down a cage I encounter a sign, "What's that smell? It's the Maned Wolf!"

They have two sloth bears now and are very proud of them. These bears are not very slothful, they just got stuck with that name - probably from some Western explorer in Asia (where the sloth bear hails from).

I saw the beavers being fed! You wouldn't think this is a great thing to see, but I got to tell you, it was pretty darn cute. I got some great pictures, and some terrific pictures of meerkats. However, when I try to put a picture on my blog I get an error message. I'm still learning.

Yep, the zoo lived up to all my nostalgia. It was just what I needed to detox from Foreign Service training.

Dark Falls Church

2008-04-20T09:24:00.000-07:00

No, it's not as exotic as - well it's probably more exotic than Utah. I'm in Falls Church, Virginia living in a furnished studio apartment, and I'm doing it at the government's expense. You see, after many years of threatening, I have actually joined the Foreign Service. For those of you who don't know, the Foreign Service are the diplomats who staff the embassies and consulates of the United States around the world. I will have a black passport. I will be able to go through the diplomat's line at customs in the airport. But first, I have to finish my training.

So I'll be at the Oakwood until August 2008, and then I'm off to Abidjan, Cote D'Ivoire.

From Oakwood I have a lovely view of a graveyard, which means it's quiet and I have plenty of light. During the day. On rainy days or at night I have to turn on every light so that I can get a slight haze of illumination. I finally figured out that the one table lamp is not a 60-watt max lamp. Oh sure, that's what the label says, but right underneath the label, etched into the metal of the bulb-holder part, it clearly says 250 watts max. And, it takes two turns of the switch to turn it on, and two turns of the switch to turn it off. Yes folks, it's a three way lamp. I bought a 30-70-100 bulb last night and now I can see during my nightly knitting.

I also replaced the 9-watt (who makes a 9-watt bulb?) over my bed with a 25-watt bulb. I was reading by 9-watts. What? Do they want me to go to Africa nearly blind?

The desk has no light at all. And even upping the light in the room has not taken it out of it's dark recess. So I bought a cheap clamp-lamp, like you have in college, and can now work at the desk without using braille.

The large walk-in closet came with 15 hangers. I asked for more and got another set of 15. Luckily, Mom and Dad came by with a bunch.

Did I tell you my studio apartment has two large TVs?

Still, it's pretty nice. I moved the fake plants around (to get them out of my way). And I am amassing the largest collection of dish towels in Falls Church. You see I use one, and put the other away in one of the kitchen drawers. Then when the maid comes on Friday, she takes the dirty one and leaves two fresh ones. I must remember to leave the whole stack out so she won't leave me anymore.

Yes, the maid comes once a week and cleans the studio, replaces the towels and sheets, and smothers me in dishtowels. I haven't vacuumed or scrubbed the tub in three weeks. This is the life.

Come visit. Renting a roll-away only costs me $25 a week.

A month in Germany & Italy - Mostly Jan 2007

2007-03-06T15:47:00.000-08:00

LAURA’S TRIP BEGINS

JANUARY 1, 2007 POSTING

Guten Tag.

I arrived on time in Munich on Saturday morning and got the train to Garmish with no difficulty.

As for my Lufthansa plane, I think it might have been a new one. It had that shiny quality to it. And it had the new-fangled cup holders that are rings you can put a cup or bottle in without having to lower the tray-table (I first saw that on South African on my trip in October). I can't answer to the leg room, but I've been more cramped before. Of course, I was on the end (middle section) and the seat between me and the guy on the other end was empty -- ah, elbow and knee room. And it helped that I was in the back of the plane, where due to the tapering of the fuselage, the middle section was only three seats across rather than four. The food was excellent! All brown! I thought it was turkey, stuffing and potatoes with green beans, but now I think it was turkey, dumplings and potatoes with green beans. I was also impressed that all the junk in the seat pocket - the magazine, the barf bag, the catalog and the safety manual - were all in self contained clear plastic folder. What genius thought that up? It was so easy to keep my things separate from their things.

My Return to Africa - October 2006

2007-03-06T15:46:00.000-08:00

My Return to Africa
Accompanied by Mom and Dad
Pat Quinn – Tour Guide

My sister Pat arrived in Namibia in Southern Africa as secretary to Ambassador Joyce A. Barr in September 2004. I arrived soon after in March of 2005. Recently, in October 2006 I returned, with my mom (83) and my dad (86) who despite weaker knees, are still in remarkably good shape.

So, instead of leaving from New York’s JFK, like I did last time, I flew down to Washington, DC on October 15th, so as to accompany my parents from Dulles Airport, Virginia to Johannesburg, South Africa. If you want to fly to anywhere in Southern Africa (Namibia, Zambia, Botswana, Zimbabwe) one has to fly through Johannesburg. This is particularly annoying, as our flight path will take us over Namibia. Then, we will switch planes and fly back to Namibia. Grrr.

After my tipping my brother Vincent $2.00 for transportation and luggage handling, Mom, Dad and I head into Dulles Airport, get our baggage checked in (Only two bags? But there are three of you.), go through security, take the shuttle to the international terminal, breakfast at Starbucks, and then board the airplane for our 18 hour flight. We took South African Flight 208 and there’s nothing much to report. The service was fine, the movie selection was ok, the legroom was non-existent, and the yogurt they served for breakfast was the African idea of yogurt. In short, it looked funny, so I didn’t try it. We landed for about one hour in Dakar, Senegal to refuel, allow some passengers to deplane, allow other passengers to board, and get sprayed with some sort of disinfectant. Everyone stood up and chatted. Mom’s blanket disappeared, but Dad’s was big enough for them to share.

The woman next to me was returning home after a month in Texas, visiting her son and his French wife. Her other son and daughter live in South Africa. Her only regret was that her French daughter in-law was an excellent cook, and she never got to sample American cuisine (she quizzed me on biscuits and gravy).

So, we arrive in Jo’Burg, and book over for our connecting flight to Windhoek, Namibia. We run into Pat’s boss, Joyce, who was also on our flight back from DC. Of course, she flew first class. The ticket clerks were very upset that Mom, Dad, and I were not together, but frankly, all I cared about was getting on the plane and getting to Pat’s. Besides, I had just spent 18 hours with Mom and Dad. I think we were all looking forward to a little apart-time.

We arrive. We go through customs. Our luggage does not appear. I go over to the South African Air lost luggage spot. They send me to Air Namibia lost luggage spot (to see if the was a chance that our luggage was coming in on their next flight from Jo’Burg). I go back to South African Air after the lady at Air Namibia basically said, “She could have looked that up on her computer.” Remembering the best travel advice anyone ever gave (it was my nephew Luke to my sister Pat), “Is anyone going to die? If not, no problem.” I take a deep breath, and school my features to blank patience rather than irritation. I think the South African Air lady knew she had made a mistake, because despite my purposely relaxed shoulders, she took me ahead of the tour group that was now waiting at South African Air to inquire about their lost luggage. For some reason I don’t remember, I have to exit the luggage area, where Mom, Dad and Pat cheer my entrance. I get what I need from Pat (I think it was the embassy’s address – we just mail everything to her via Dulles, Virginia), then I have to go through security again. Finally, they have all the information (Pat’s cell phone, her home phone, her address, and the address of the US Embassy), and assuring the woman that there are only two bags involved – despite the fact that there are three people with lost luggage - I leave the luggage pick up/customs area with no luggage.

Hey, they lost the ambassador’s luggage too!

Pat loads us into the car and takes us to her spacious 4 bedroom home in Olympia, a nice subdivision of Windhoek that is near the future Capital Hill area (it’s a hill, and they are building the new capital there, so I’ve decided it should be called Capital Hill). My sister, who does not cook, makes us spaghetti, loans pajamas to Mom and I, and we go to bed.

Monday, October 16, 2006
It’s sunny! We have breakfast and don our fall/we’ll be on a freezing airplane clothes. Luckily, I was wearing a black tank top under my sweater so I’m relatively cool (and covered since I wasn’t wearing a bra on the plane). I’m still in jeans, but I’m wearing my tennies without socks, so I should be ok. Mom has borrowed a pair of tennies and a short-sleeve shirt from Pat. Dad is basically stuck – so we head off to Marula Mall to get him a short-sleeved shirt.

Last time I was at Marula Mall, that would be March 2005, there was a parking lot. Now there is a parking garage, and most of the former parking lot is the new wing of Marula Mall. And they are still adding on!! If you read my last travelogue on Namibia, you’ll remember how I said the country really seemed to be doing well. It wasn’t rich, and there are poor, but it does not have the grinding poverty that has haunted Africa. Namibia has a government which, (so far – fingers crossed) has avoided corrupt politicians , and focused on jobs, education, healthcare, and the environment. It’s pretty stunning.

The older section of the Marula Mall has more local-owned stores. You know, the Christian bookstore, the grocery store (now under major restoration to compete with the newer grocery store in the new part of the mall), the dried animal meat store, and the local fabric store. In the newer section you’ll find the South African chains. We got to a small department store that carries clothes and housewares. We get Dad a tan short sleeve shirt. Then, we go to a South African Chain that’s sort of like Eastern Mountain Sports, and Dad buys a hat to keep his face from frying – if the luggage doesn’t show up. It’s Australian style and looks very good on him.

Pat complains that the clothes all look great, but they are not cut right for her. I understand. I have the same problem with Target here in the states (my shoulders are narrower than their model’s). BUT as we walk around I’m thinking, “If the luggage doesn’t arrive I can come back here and buy some underwear, a bra, two pairs of shorts, and four shirts, and I’ll be ok.”

Next we go to the fancy craft center (I cannot remember the name) and I look for the butter bell, which I should have bought last time, but didn’t. They don’t have it. This place is really, really nice, but I’m not really in the market to buy fine art.

So, we head to the Craft Center; it was two stories when I was there in March 2005. It’s still two stories, plus a mezzanine, which leads out to a courtyard, which opens on to more stores. The place is jammed. Pat has never seen it so crowded. Dad buys a walking stick for 90 Namibian dollars. The exchange rate is 7.8 Namibian dollars to $1 US. So that comes to $11.53.

I can remember what Mom buys, but I’m sure she got something.

There’s a really good restaurant here at the Craft Center, and last time I was in the country I had bush tea here (just like in The Number 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series), but it’s time for us to get back in the car and drive out to the Penduka craft center in Katutula.

Katutula basically means, the place we will not name. It was the township established in the 1970’s by South Africa. After independence was gained a lot of folks moved out, then they moved back. There are many theories for this reverse migration. (1) In the white areas, all the houses are behind high walls toped with razor wire. This annoys black Africans who are much more into the idea of a neighborhood where you can see your neighbors. (2) They have been living there for 20 years, and they know everyone. (3) It’s still the cheapest place to live.

You’ll see very nice houses (some with a very well tended tree in front) and some pretty awful places. There’s not a lot of litter in Namibia (a result of the government’s drive to ensure that everyone in the country has a job and income – Namibia has a lot of road-maintenance workers and it’s a clean, clean place), so it’s rare that the poverty is squalid. It’s more like the house is run down and has an air of neglect. Most of these houses are small, small, small. Two rooms at the most. But we will see, when driving through the more traditional Caprivi, that a nuclear family does not have a seven-room house – they have a seven one-room-hut coral.

Anyway, Namibia has established government craft centers where women can sell their work and receive the profits directly. When you pick up an item, it will have the name of the person who made it attached. And when you buy your items, the clerk fills out a receipt with all the names of the crafters (Spoon – Josephina - $10 Namibian Dollars). The buyer signs the receipt, the clerk signs the receipt, and the buyer receives one of the three copies.

However, we didn’t buy anything. There wasn’t a good selection (which surprised Pat, usually there is) and there was no clerk. We could have picked up stuff and walked out. Oh well. On to Okapuka.

On the way we saw baboon hanging out on the median, and Pat told the following “stupid tourist” story.

A Texan comes to Namibia to hunt on a private game reserve. One morning, he gets up early and decides to take pictures of the animals (as opposed to killing them). When the employees of the game reserve found his body this is what they surmised. Texan gets up early and decides to take some pictures of the animals. He heads to a fenced-in area where a maturing male oryx and a couple of females are hanging out. He climbs over two fences. He manages to get gored to death by an animal that (1) is very skittish, and if not stuck in a fenced-in area for mating purposes, will 99 times out of 100 run away from humans, and (2) manages to get gored by an animal that has to put his head completely on the ground in order to thrust his horns, which arch over his back, directly into the Texan’s chest.

One of the embassy employees had the fun of identifying the body. The oryx was put down because it was a man-killer. How stupid do you have to be to turn what is basically a timid deer into a man-killer? An eater-of-tomatoes-in-your-garden, that’s not hard. But turning a deer into a man-killer takes a true idiot.

Okapuka is a huge lodge/privately owned game reserve right outside of Windhoek. I went there on my last day in Namibia last time. It’s a great afternoon activity, and if you ever want something to do while in Windhoek, I would recommend it. It has a very good restaurant, and the dinner menu reads like something out of The Lord of the Rings (complete with illustrations). The lunch menu, while Tolkien-free, is still quite good.

Okapuka Lodge has several guesthouses and a conference center, but we’re just here for the game drive.

Let’s cut to the chase. Here’s what we saw at Okapuka.
➢ Springbok
➢ Giraffes (not that tall, they were young)
➢ 5 White Rhinos (including a toddler)
➢ Warthogs
➢ Pretty Blue Birds
➢ Oryx (the Texan-killers)
➢ Sables
➢ Wildebeests

Always get reservations for the game drive at Okapuka. It’s popular! They had to send out two game-viewing trucks crammed with tourists. Our truck was driven by the wife of the lodge-manager. Our companions were the second-in-command of the Embassy of Nigeria, his wife, and their three little kids. The kids had obviously been given a homework assignment. Every time they saw an animal they asked, “How long is the gestation period?” These kids were under ten, so this is not a natural question. Also, their mother had a notebook, and had to prompt them sometimes.

Now, the animals on Okapuku are living on a reserve. There’s a special double fence that keeps the animals from migrating (basically, most of the herd animals could jump over the first fence, but the second fence is too close to the first to give them the running start they need to make the second leap). The owner allows some of the animals to be hunted (there are no predators, so I guess they have to thin the herds), but his main business seems to be the tourists who just want to take pictures.

That said, these animals are still wild. They tend to ignore the game truck, but when it gets to close, they move away. The exception is the rhinos. First, rhinos have very bad eyesight, so the guide intentionally makes as much noise as possible when approaching the rhinos. Then, after the truck has stopped, the head rhino comes over and checks the truck out with his beady eyes. Then he gives the signal and it’s Rhino-chow time. Yes, we carry a bucket of rhino treats. The guide, while sprinkling the pellets looses her shoe. The second in command of the Nigerian Embassy gallantly leaps out while she drives in circles, gets her shoe, and gets back in as the rhino comes running at the diplomat/truck thinking, “Rhino chocolate! Rhino chocolate!”

While on the game drive Pat gets a call on her cell phone from Debbie, the secretary to the DSM at the embassy. Our luggage has arrived! Hooray! But, she is informed that only two bags came for the three of us. Really, are we the only people in the world who pack light?

Back at the lodge we take pictures with the Nigerian diplomat and his family. He has an embassy car and chauffeur waiting. Dad chats with the chauffeur. We drive back to Windhoek (baboons!) and stop by Debbie’s house to pick up our luggage (she brought it home with her). She is concerned that there are only two bags. Nope, we only have two bags.

Here’s the thing. Last time I came to Namibia I over packed to the extreme. This time, I have a bag small enough to be a carry-on. I packed four pairs of Capri pants, one pair of shorts, eight shirts (didn’t wear one), two sweaters (didn’t wear one), two pairs of sandals, pjs, and undies. I wore jeans, a sweater, tennis shoes, socks, and my fleece on the plane. Mom, taking my advice to heart, got everything she and Dad needed into one regular sized suitcase. I don’t think they once said, “oh, we should have brought something else.”

That night we watched TV, worked on a jigsaw puzzle, and ordered a pizza that never came. Tomorrow, we start the nine-day tour of Namibia.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Great Trek Begins
Day One

Windhoek to Etosha (Okuakuejo Rest Camp)

This is the beginning of our 9-day odyssey across Namibia.

Today we are driving to Etosha. Pat has done this trip several times now, so she needs no navigation assistance. Etosha is in the Northern part of Namibia, and is an unfenced, so that the animals can follow their natural migration plans. Back in the old days, the park rangers used to stage feedings at certain waterholes for the tourists, but they haven’t done that for years. So aside from some man-made waterholes, and the jackals getting into the garbage at the rest camps (you just try to keep a jackal away from garbage – they are the raccoons of the wild) the creatures are on their own.

We go in through the _____ Gate, the west entrance to the park. Though clearly labeled _____ Gate in all maps and guidebooks, you will not see the words _____ Gate anywhere on the gate itself. You will not see an arrow sign with the words ____ Gate. I had a standing offer of 20 Namibian dollars to anyone who could spot the words _____ Gate anywhere. I kept that money.

So, at the gate you fill out a form, pay for your entrance into the park, get stamped, then drive 17 kilometers to the rest camp. It takes about five minutes, so Dad starts talking to a bunch of kids (about 13-14). The people who work at Etosha live at Etosha, and there are schools. The workers also get to use the facilities. Last time I was there, when Pat I were hanging out at the pool at Namatomi Rest Camp, a bunch of high school boys fresh out of school came flying into the pool with much splashing and hullabaloo. One of their teachers came by and told them to watch the splashing, but that was it.

Now, Namibia has ten official languages. But the language of the government and commerce is English. So Dad is having a fine time chatting to the kids. He asks if they go to school (yes, see the above paragraph). They tell him they learn all about the animals in the park, and their gestation periods.

So, we get there in good time and check in. Since the last time I was there Etosha has added a sign to the reception area that says, “Have a nice day.” Mom and I crack up.

Also, since I was last in Etosha, Namibia has a new minister of tourism. And boy oh boy, the tourist shops are actually stocked! Last time we were there the shelves were empty. You could hear an echo when you spoke. Now the post cards are in the wire rack, soda and water are in the fridges, and vegetables as well as raw meat are available.

Now, the best places to stay in Etosha are the two-bedroom self-catering huts/chalets right on the Okuakuejo water hole. Well, not only did Pat snag one of those prime pieces of real estate for us, but we got one right in the center, with an unobstructed view of the waterhole. So, we could sit around, bar-b-que the shish-kabobs we brought along, and when we saw the folks at the waterhole pointing, we’d get up, and walk about 30-45 feet to check out what was taking a drink.

But we have about two hours before the gates to the rest camp close, so we go out for a quick tour of some of the better waterholes. There is an excellent guide to Etosha that lists the waterholes, what you are most likely to see there, and which ones have been dry for over two decades (something that is left off the general maps). This guide will also give you a little history – like the Trekers (which is what they call the white pioneers) stopped here and named it this because of that, and over there is the grave of this woman and here’s where that guy did this, etc., etc.

There is also an excellent children’s book, which I believe is entitled The Animals of Namibia, or The Animals of Etosha. Anyway, I suggest you get it. Both (shock!) were available in the tourist shop at Okuakuejo.

Of course, we barely make it back to the rest camp gate before sunset. Each rest camp has a fence around it, so the lions and elephants won’t walk in and say hello. Granted, it doesn’t stop the jackals and warthogs, and I’m guessing if the elephants and lions decided they wanted in, they could get in. But there is a fence to protect the tourists, and there is a gate. The gate to each rest camp opens at sunrise and closes at sunset. The times are posted on clocks as you exit the gate. Of course, we go a little to far looking for elephants (we did see lions!), and we are terrified that we are not going to make the gate. Of course, logically, you know they are not going to say, sorry you don’t get in. We suggest you lock the doors and enjoy sleeping in the car. But we are panicked. As is the four-wheel drive vehicle which is going much faster than us. We follow their cloud of dust. When we see that gate we all cheer. We made it by ten minutes.

We stop off in the tourist shop to get some postcards (and Mom gets the children’s book guide to Animals) and Pat asks one of the park rangers what would happen if we hadn’t made it through the gate in time.

First, they keep the gate open about a half-an-hour after sunset just to get the idiot tourists who were too busy looking for elephants to pay attention to the time. After that, they will open the gate and let you in – and fine you!

Here’s what we saw in Etosha on that drive:

➢ Springbok
➢ Zebra
➢ Guinea Fowl
➢ Lots of Elephant Poop
➢ Lionesses with (older) cubs (!!!!! – no pictures, they were too far away, and Pat has a better zoom)
➢ Wildebeests
➢ Oryx
➢ Impalas
➢ Jackals
➢ Secretary Bird
➢ Ostrich
➢ Squirrels (obviously male and female)

We had picked up some chicken and beef kabobs at the grocery store at Marula Mall, and we got our grill going and cooked them up. Since our chalet was right on the Okuakuejo water hole, we were able to tell from the clicking of cameras when something good was happening. Over the course of the night we saw a heard of zebras and I saw some beige maybe-cat-like creatures scurrying around (I have no idea what they were). But the best part was the giraffe vs. the black rhino. They were both young, and they were very careful about approaching the water hole, checking each other out, and establishing territory. The giraffe eventually loped off, and another black rhino came out.

We also saw some very male and extremely female squirrels.

At the Okuakuejo water hole:
➢ Zebras (at the Water hole)
➢ Giraffes (at the Water hole)
➢ Black Rhinos (at the Water hole)

We also had a beautiful sunset, which my camera totally failed to capture.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006
The Great Trek Continues
Day Two

Driving through Etosha from Okajavi to Halali to Natomi

Good morning. We heard lions roaring in the night, but didn’t see them (which is a good thing, since you don’t want lions in your chalet). We had breakfast, checked out the morning view at the water hole (Kudus!) and headed out for a day of driving around Etosha.

Here’s what we saw.
Kudus (At the Okuakuejo waterhole)
Elephants! (At the Olisphantbad Water Hole)
Ostriches (With babies at the Olisphantbad Water Hole)
Dik-dik
Jackals
Giraffes
Impalas
Oryx
Kudus (more!)
Zebras (tons)
Springbok (tons)
Wildebeests (tons)

We stop at the Halali rest camp for lunch. Last time Pat was here the tourist shop had sandwiches. But they are out. The place is jammed. We get some ice cream, which will hold us until dinner (we didn’t want to sit down at the restaurant). It’s a bit of an uphill hike to the Halali rest camp’s waterhole, so to spare Mom and Dad’s knees, I decide to run up real quick and see if there is anything worth seeing. I meet some tourists coming down who tell us there are bunch of zebra. As we have seen plenty of zebras, we decide to skip this water hole.

We get to Namutoni rest camp, just in time for the evening rainstorm. This water hole stinks, and you never see anything good at this one. I don’t know why, but my theory is that it’s too close to the road. Our chalet is not nice – indeed it’s the worst place we’ll stay in Namibia. The light bulbs are so dim we can barely see, and the pots and pans provided are really awful. This is a real surprise to me, because when I was in Etosha in 2005, I thought Namutoni was the best of the rest camps. Probably because we stayed in the old German fort, saw a romping clan of mongoose, took a swim, and saw adorable warthogs scurrying around the fort’s courtyard. Also, last time I was in Etosha, the chalet/room Pat and I had in Okuakuejo rest camp was pretty Motel 6.

But here’s the deal, all the places in Etosha are clean. And it seems that the park authority is always fixing up some of the places to stay. Sometimes, you luck out and get the place with the view or frolicking warthogs, sometimes you get the place that’s a bit run down.

Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Great Trek Continues
Day Three

Etosha: Fischer’s Pan on the way to Twee Palms
Drove from Etosha to Rundu

The next morning, I make Mom, Dad and Pat pose for a picture in front of a giant termite mound. I don’t know how I missed this the last time – but just like many people in the US use old tires as gardening opportunities, many Namibians say decide to use giant termite-mounds as the basis of a lovely garden. Trees often grow out of them, so why not add some pretty flowers?

This morning we are going to drive Fischer’s Pan then leave Etosha. However, we don’t get to drive the whole pan due to roadwork. We get as far as Twee Palms (which means Two Palms in Afrikans). All I can say is Giraffes! Giraffes! Giraffes! And more Giraffes! My goodness did we see giraffes!

So, we head the car toward the unmarked Von Lindequist Gate at the eastern end of the park. Between the Namutoni camp and the unmarked Von Lindequist Gate gate, we see even more animals, including:

➢ Female Kudus and babies
➢ Impalas
➢ Giraffes
➢ Zebras

Tonight we will be staying at the Kavango River Lodge, so named because it’s on a high bluff overlooking the Kavango River. The Kavango River is the border between Namibia and Angola, so we relax while the guinea hens run around, and enjoy the view. There are kids down in the very wide marshy banks of the river, setting fires and running around in the water. On the high bluffs on the Namibian side are some nice homes. A bunch of teenagers are playing some music, very loudly, over and over again. Most popular is the dance version of “Time to Say Goodbye.”

That night, we dine at the Kavango River Lodge’s restaurant, which is very good. There are several people there, including a group of AIDs workers, and a reporter for one of the Namibian newspapers accompanying them. She (the reporter) is thrilled to discover that Pat is the secretary to the Ambassador from the US. She gives Pat her card. I’m thinking, what a nice gal. Pat is thinking, “Lady, I still won’t put you through to the ambassador.”

This is my first inkling that Pat doesn’t like to advertise her position because she can’t help people out. It’s like me telling folks, yes I work in publishing; no I can’t help you get your book published.

The room at the Kavango River Lodge was very nice, but it was the first (and last) time that all four of us were in the same room. That was not the best.

Friday, October 20, 2006
The Great Trek Continues
Day Four

Drove from Rundu to Kongola in the East Caprivi.
Today we will drive into the Caprivi Strip – the panhandle of Namibia. Less then 20 miles wide in some spots, the Caprivi Strip is left over from the days of German Colonialism. Rhodes (for whom the former Rhodesia was named, and who also endowed the Rhodes Scholarships at Oxford) was building an inter-African railway, and it would pass through Victoria Falls. So, Germany wanted to be sure that they not only had access to Victoria Falls, but that they owned that access.

The Caprivi actually tried to succeed from Namibia, but were not successful. They had some freedom fighters whose trials are still going on and on and on. If it ever gets resolved, it will probably cause some strife in the Caprivi.

Caprivi is the poorest section of Namibia and it’s amazing how different it is from the rest of the country. Literally, the second you drive over the line into the Caprivi, traditional villages such as you would see in National Geographic spring up. In the rest of Namibia, when you see the round houses made of termite-mound-mud or perfectly cut sticks, it’s for the tourists. No one actually lives in it. In Caprivi, this is how the majority of folks still live. A married man gets a bit of land from the chief, and he builds a corral (a large round fence) with several round huts. Each hut is one room, and as the family grows, more huts are added. There are usually nice gazebo-like structures for shade and hanging out.

Think of a barbell. The Caprivi has two bulkier ends (which have modern towns, lodges, gas stations, etc.) connected by a skinny strip, formally called the Caprivi Game Reserve, and more commonly called the Caprivi Strip.

The whole Caprivi Strip is a wildlife preserve. There are no white-owned farms, and no lodges. We will see so many corrals – it’s like cruising through a National Geographic documentary. Artistry is really displayed through the roofs, which are thatch and woven in all sorts of cool and amazing ways. Cattle wander freely during the day, and kids go out and bring them into the corral at night.

The native people who live in the preserve were not forced off the land. Therefore, about every 5 kilometers is a school (built by the current government), and in the bigger villages – Omega, Chetta, Omega III (no Omega II that we could see) are clinics. You can always tell when a school is coming up because the corrals increase.

There are also a lot of water tanks – we estimated about every 2-4 kilometers. Women and kids with buckets on their heads walk along the road to and from the water sources. Also, a basic bus system has been set up, but the bus probably comes only once or twice a day. We saw a lot of bicycles (my idea for a business that can’t miss in Namibia – a bike factory). The Caprivi, like the rest of Namibia, is sparkling clean.

Now we it’s time to turn off the highway, onto the gravel/dirt road, drive past the Mudumu National Park, and pull into the Namushasha Country Lodge on the banks of the Kwando River. They claim they have a sign, but Pat swears they don’t. Certainly, I don’t need a sign, but we know to take a right after the Kongola Service Station.

The Namushasha Country Lodge is a lovely place. We arrived the day a big tour bus left, and the day before another tour bus arrived. So there were very few people at the lodge. Consequently, we got some amazing rooms. It was all very African chic, with balconies overlooking the river, and beautiful beds redolent with romantic mosquito netting.

One of the other couples staying at the lodge asks about the boat tour. The employees ask us if we would like a boat tour. Sure! A phone call is made, and we are told to be ready at 4:00.

This was a terrific boat tour. Mom, Dad, Pat and I got one boat and the other couple got another. We set out along the Kwando River and see some of the most amazing birds and antelope in the distance. Basta (not sure of that spelling) our guide also makes water lilly necklaces for Mom, Pat and I. He pulls out a read and feeds us the roots (it tastes like water). He shows us papyrus! Dad, starts asking questions and we eventually discover that Basta is something of a conservative. He is, by the rules of his tribe, waiting until he is 35 to marry, and his grandparents will choose his wife. Basta’s almost 35, so we wish him good luck. He has worked for Namushasha for many years. He regrets that he had to leave school. The Caprivi schools (and many of the schools outside of the major towns) only go up so far, then if you have the grades, you have to go to a school in one of the towns. The school is free, but you have to either have a relative you can live with, or find/pay for your own room and board. He had an uncle who had the money, but didn’t help out. So Basta got a job at Namushasha. He started out working on the grounds, moved up to the kitchen, then into maintenance, then became a junior guide, spent his own money to get the books and learned about all the animals, birds, fish, and plants, and today is the head guide for the Namushasha lodge.

Mom, Dad, Pat and I all agree that Basta is quite a catch, and we hope his grandmother picks out a nice girl for him. And I’m pretty sure that Basta’s kids will go all the way through to high school, and college if he has anything to say about it.

We had a lovely dinner, and then went back to our African-chic rooms for a shower and a relaxing night. That’s when I see the spider. The chef, who is the lodge employee sent to our room after I run to the lodge and say, “there’s a huge yellow thing we think might be a scorpion in our shower” identifies it as a water spider. It’s big, it’s yellow, and it has HORNS! Pat was trying to kill it with an umbrella, but it was far too tough. By the time the chef has come on in, the spider is absolutely terrified. Armed with a water glass and a piece of paper, Spidey is caught and freed. The chef wishes us a good night. Pat also tosses out a large black bug. Then she starts killing the smaller ones swarming around our room.

Mom and Dad don’t have nearly as many bugs as Pat and I do (our rooms have a connecting door). I wonder why that is. Oh, there is a hole in our screen. I shut the window. Pat lets down the mosquito netting, and we sleep under the fine gauzy tent all night. There is nothing romantic about it. We were slapping at imaginary critters all night.

Saturday, October 21, 2006
The Great Trek Continues
Day Five

From Kongola to Katima Mulilo.
We awake. Mom is not feeling well. She must have eaten some Kudu that disagreed with her. Dad, Pat and I go to breakfast. The staff unlocks the gift shop for me, and I get to wander through the place, with no helpful sales person or other tourist bothering me. Consequently, I take my time, pick up every item, and end up buying lizard magnets for the gals at work, a necklace for myself, and a toothpick holder for Dad for Christmas.

I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time in a gift shop. I mean, this thing was the size of an American’s luxury bathroom, but I made the full circle at least six times. I think it’s the equivalent of being in a department store at night. The whole place is yours. Go ahead, try it, sample it, take what you want.

Back in the room Mom is still a bit out of it, but she is feeling well enough to ride in the car. We decide to drive straight though to the Caprivi River Lodge (at the end of the strip) on the banks of the Zambezi River. We decide to skip the heritage village, which is the Caprivi version of Colonial Williamsburg. You get to see native crafts, singing and dancing. I really don’t like those sort of things, so while mom apologizes for ruining our good time, I tell her (truthfully) that I’m grateful. I was going to go along and be a good sport, but I’m thrilled to be out of it. Especially since, as the youngest woman, I probably would have been pulled up to dance. The only thing I regret is that these heritage villages are apparently the only places to buy hippo calls. Pat has one at her house, and it really does sound like a hippo.

As we are about to turn back on to the highway that will take us through the Caprivi Strip proper, Pat stops for gas at the Kongola Service Station. There are no gas stations for the next 2.5 hours of driving, and it’s best to be filled up. Across the road is the craft center – but it’s closed. As I am taking pictures of the flame trees, I spot the sign for Namushasha Country Lodge. Yes, there is a sign. Of course, it’s a good 25 ft off the highway, and as Americans, we do expect the signs to be a bit closer to the road. That actually makes it easier to see.

The Caprivi River Lodge on the banks of the Zambezi River is terrific, just don’t talk to the owner who feels free to make comments to me about how crazy those Americans are having women in the government (Condoleza Rice). Look at your ambassador to Namibia. Yes, not only are they woman you jackass (I think, don’t say) but they’re black too. I wonder, “does he know he’s insulting me?” No, he probably doesn’t.

Something that will really stand out for me is that the deeper we get into the Caprivi, the more belligerent the white people get. They talk about “the war.” This is the Namibian war of independence against South Africa. One guess as to which side these guys were on. I think they’re very disappointed that Namibia is doing so well, and I believe they are waiting eagerly for the country to go bust. The white owners of the lodges we stay in treat the black employees like servants. They also have really sexist attitudes toward women. In short, I thought calling men pigs was something you did in 1972. But I assure you these fellows are bacon. By the way, their wives are the ones actually running the lodges.

But the river is lovely, and we watch Craprivians ride down the river in canoes (waving to the tourist taking pictures – that would be me), and gaze out to Botswana across the way. Also, the shaded patio where we eat is in need of repair, and two men are working on the thatch. That alone gives Dad something to watch for a good hour. I take pictures.

We’re asked if we want to go on a boat ride and I immediately say yes. I mean, what else is there to do? If you travel to Africa, bring a book. Bring cards. I mean, after the animals go to bed (mid afternoon) there is not that much to do. Unlike the men of the Caprivi, I cannot drink and talk about the war all day.

Pat however is unenthusiastic. It seems last time she stayed here with our Aunt Louise, her pal, and our cousin once removed, Michelle, the boat ride consisted of some drunken teenagers running them up and down the river while they hit on Michelle.

This time, it was much better. Getting Mom and Dad down the steep incline of the bank was a bit of chore, but it was accomplished. And because Mom couldn’t manage the step up onto the boat, one of the guides just picked her up and plopped her onto the deck.

It was a lovely trip. The two guys running the boat are older, and between drinking beers and reminiscing about the war and airing their right-wing views, they make sure we get to see some hippos. And, they had a lot to say about our huge, water-loving friends. First, hippos don’t swim. They walk along the bottom of the river. They also like to play in the wakes of boats, and our guides got one running along the lakebed, jumping up and down in our wake.

Because they don’t swim, but like to be mostly submerged, hippos are drawn to shallow rivers. For the most part you see their ears and their backs. But occasionally one opens it massive mouth, sticks out its shocking pink tongue, and yawns. It’s better than Disney.

More people are killed in Africa by peaceful hippos than by any other creature. This happens when pleasure boaters speed into mostly submerged hippos. Or, when folks decide to picnic on the nice sandy stretch of the otherwise reedy lakeshore. That sandy stretch was most likely made by hippos (see that path?). A hippo spying picnickers between it and land/lake will become threatened. It doesn’t think, oh great, tourists. It thinks, SOMETHING IS TRYING TO KEEP ME FROM THE RIVER!!!!! It will charge. Picnickers die. Sometimes people just play their music too loud. And though hippos are pretty loud themselves (and are nocturnal) they don’t like other creatures being loud. Please, turn off the pop music.

It was a nice group of people on the boat, including two Peace Core volunteers named Jennifer and another girls whose name I forgot. They were staying at the Hippo Lodge down the road, and were really enjoying the cable. Both were working on advanced degrees in political science, and could use their time in the Peace Core to earn credits toward their degrees. They work with kids.

Later, I wandered around the grounds taking pictures of beautiful flowers, and encountered a lizard at least two feet long. Though I had my camera, he moved too quickly for me to get a shot. You’ll just have to trust me. He was big. He could have made a sizable dinner for four.

Sunday, October 22, 2006
The Great Trek Continues
Day Six

From Katima Mulilo we travel through Botswana to Zimbabwe to see Victoria Falls.

This is what we are doing today – we are traveling from Namibia, through Botswana, to visit Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. We could have gone to the Zambia side, but it’s “perfect for hiking” or “not good for your elderly parents.” The Zimbabwe side is like the Canadian side of Niagara Falls – you’ll have the better view. Also, it’s been very developed, and it has smooth paths. Sounds easy, right?

Starting from the Engen Gas Station in Katima Mulilo at 6:45 AM.
➢ 7:30 Get out at the Namibian border. Get your passport stamped.
➢ Drive over the bridge.
➢ Stop at the Botswana border.
➢ Drive the car through the chemical that will stop the transmission of hoof and mouth disease, stamp your shoes up and down on the sponge full of the chemical to prevent the spread of hoof and mouth disease.
➢ Get your passport stamped. Get out of paying the fee for entering the country because your sister is a diplomat.
➢ While Pat is filling out the paperwork on the car, take the time to enjoy the view. The Border is set up on a bluff, and view over the valley into Namibia is really lovely. Also, this will be your first look at the giant ______ trees.
➢ 8:00 Begin your drive through Botswana.
➢ Stop at the entrance to the Chobe National Park in Botswana, watch Pat get out and run over to the guard shack to sign something so that we can enter the park.
➢ Drive through the park. WATERBUFFALO! A whole herd! Oooo, look Mountain Zebras, which are not the same as the Plains Zebras we’ve seen in Etosha. Check out the herd of Roan (a kind of deer), monkeys, baboons, warthogs, Tawny Eagles, and Ground Hornbills.
➢ 8:30 At the end of the park watch Pat hop out of the car to sign out of the park.
➢ Enter Kasane, Botswana – a town devoted to the tourist trade provided by Chobe National Park. Notice how less clean it is than Namibia. Check to make sure if the gas stations (I think there are two) actually have gas. Sometimes they run out. They usually get gas within 24 hours, but then you have to spend the night in Botswana. If you need gas, get it now. Zimbabwe probably won’t have gas, and if they do, you will pay an astronomical amount. Go to the ATM, withdraw some Botswana dollars, and fill up your tank.
➢ Hit the Y in the road, and take the completely unmarked left so you’ll head toward the border and not head south into Botswana.
➢ Realize that you are heading south into Botswana. Turn around.
➢ Hit the Botswana border. Get out and get your passport stamped.
➢ Hit the Zimbabwe border. Get out and get your passport stamped. Pay for the privilege of entering Zimbabwe (this changes, we actually get in for $30). Pay for the car’s right to enter Zimbabwe – this is based on engine size. Pat did not know her engine size and later found out she overpaid.
➢ 10:00 Enter Zimbabwe
➢ Drive to Victoria Falls.
➢ 10:50 Arrive at Victoria Falls. Park in a gated parking lot, where locals yell to you through the bars to buy their souvenirs. Cross the street and pay $20 American to enter the park. You must have American money to enter the park. This means that the majority of Zimbabweans are not able to view their national landmark.
Total time: Four hours and five minutes.

Walk around and enjoy Victoria Falls. Luckily, the water wasn’t high because when it is the mist is so prevalent that you cannot actually see the falls. However, the mist was rocking. The falls were amazing. The flowers were beautiful. My camera’s battery died. On the way out I really began to notice how rundown the park is. Also, once away from the mist, it’s really hot. Miserably hot. It was hard on Pat and me, let alone Mom and Dad. There are benches, but they’re in the boiling sun. When the mist is really strong, this area is probably as lush as the area near the falls. But now it’s dead and baking.

Back in the fenced parking lot, Dad buys a walking stick for $10 American from one of the many people desperately hawking stuff through the bars. Later when we compare his two walking sticks, I will opine that I like the color of the Zimbabwean stick better, but that the carving on the Namibian stick is superior.

We then drove to the Victoria Falls Hotel to have a drink and some ice cream. We weren’t all that hungry because the lodge had packed a breakfast for us that consisted of 12 hard boiled eggs, eight sandwiches, more than four apples, and orange juice. Later, back at the Lodge, they told us they had packed a smaller breakfast since Americans don’t eat that much. And if you’re wondering – we didn’t finish it.

The economy is so bad that in order to buy two post cards and a little booklet on the falls for Mom (which came to $30 American!!) I had to have one receipt drawn up by the gift shop clerk (about 15 minutes), then was escorted from the gift shop over to the hotel cashier, then have a the hotel cashier do actually take my credit card and put the purchase through. The family got so tired of waiting for me, they went out, got the car, and came around front to pick me up. Then they sat there. I did use the facilities before leaving and got the only thing free in Zimbabwe’s retched economy. A sanitary bag from the ladies room stamped with the seal of Victoria Falls Hotel.

Why has Zimbabwe fallen on such hard economic times? That would be Robert Mugabe, the crazy president. When I was last in Namibia, Zimbabwe had just held presidential elections. Mugabe almost lost – and the election was fixed! All the commentators on Namibian TV were like, wow, can you believe he almost lost? The dictator is loosing his touch if he nearly looses a fixed election!

Mugabe is nuts. His idea of land reform was taking control of many of the white-owned farms (and throwing about 150,000 blacks out of work), giving the better land to his friends and family, and then allowing veterans of his various battles to claim land – without providing them agricultural supplies or training. Not surprisingly, Zimbabwe is now having trouble feeding itself.

Interestingly, since Zimbabwe under Mugabe supported SWAPO’s battle for independence against South Africa, the first Namibian president, Sam Nujoma always refused to speak out against Mugabe. The current Namibian president, Hifikepunye Pohamba has made it clear that the sooner Mugabe “steps down from office,” the better it will be for all of Africa.

The thing is, there’s not that much to do in Victoria Falls except see the falls (which are worth seeing) and have an over-priced lunch. There are lots of shops, but since I just paid $5 per postcard, I would not recommend actually buying anything there. I don’t think we spent three hours in Zimbabwe. And while yes, it was faster going back (since leaving Zimbabwe takes far less time then entering, and we didn’t make a wrong turn) it’s still a long drive. And, it was on the return that Pat got a few Botswanan dollars in order to fill up her gas tank JUST IN CASE. But we were back in Namibia before the sun set. Heck, we were back at the lodge before it got dark, and we pulled over at a local Namibian government run craft center and proceeded to buy the place out.

Why Mom, Pat and I were investing in the future of Namibia by supporting local crafts people, Dad was hanging out in the car. But he then decided to come into the craft center and check out the prices on the walking sticks. The craft center was right next to a tree with a picnic table and several people, including little kids were hanging out chatting and eating. When Dad got out of the car, one of the very little ones let out a shriek, and ran terrorized to his mother. Everyone hanging out under the tree is simultaneously laughing and trying to comfort the child. Dad is laughing too. For the rest of the trip he cannot get out of a car without one of saying, “Don’t scare the children!”

At this craft center I bought 5 sachets. They were woven from some grass, and stuffed with some nice smelly grass that I really liked. I thought these would make excellent gifts for my girlfriends because (1) if they don’t like it, they are absolutely justified in sticking it in a drawer and (2) if they don’t like the scent, they can untie the little woven bag and dump out the grass and replace it with whatever they want. Also, Namibia smells so good. Perhaps it’s because we are there in the spring, but roll down the windows and inhale while you can.

Back at the Lodge, we have a drink and dinner and go to bed.

Monday, October 23, 2006
The Great Trek Continues
Day Seven
We travel to Ndhovu Safari Lodge, in Divundu.

We check out of the lodge and head over to the town of Katima Mulilo to check out the government sponsored craft center. The main entrance is under construction, and because this is a main tourist draw, there is no sign directing you to go around, drive up an unmarked road, and park in the back.

When Pat was here a year ago the Katima Mulilo craft center was one building with several rooms, a courtyard for locals to set up their stalls, and smaller store fronts with gates, also for locals to sell their wares. Now, the courtyard is being remodeled, a café was being built (we peered in through the windows and could see the bar and the bathrooms), more permanent store fronts are being added, and in the back, where we parked, there are more of the gated-store fronts and a thriving market for your daily needs such as plastic containers, live chickens, and kitchen wares.

It’s just amazing how much economic prosperity is on display in Namibia. Here we are in the poorest region of the country, and commerce is commencing. Everyone is building. Heck, even when traveling through the Caprivi Strip, all we saw was folks building more and more round huts and expanding their corrals. And it becomes more apparent after traveling through Botswana (which is still doing pretty well, but the conditions for the poor are much more squalid) and Zimbabwe (which is teetering on the edge of chaos).

This was an excellent craft center, and though I needed nothing, I bought. One sees these lovely things for so little money, one finds oneself filled with an acquisitive lust. I consoled myself that if I couldn’t find a place for these lovely items in my apartment in NYC, I’d give them away as gifts. Of course, the minute I got back to NYC I did regain my senses, and decided to give the adorable basket with lid to Tim and Greg as a host gift at Thanksgiving, and the bowl with giraffes to Bonnie and Gil Glotzer as a Hanukah gift.

Mom bought stuff. Pat bought stuff. Perhaps Pat inadvertently inspired me by saying if she likes something, she buys it. After all, all the money at the government sponsored craft centers goes directly to the crafts person. And, if when she gets it home and realizes she already has six carved giraffes, she puts it in the gift closet. She is never without a nice gift.

We could drive back through the Caprivi Strip today, but we’re going to stop off near Divindu instead. There’s a really nice lodge with lots of hippos, which I had personally requested we stay at, because I wanted to see hippos. Of course, we had just seen hippos two days ago, and as this was day 7 of The Great Trek, I was sort of kicking myself. But, what the heck, it’ll be nice to see more hippos, won’t it?

We pull off at another craft center where Dad has a swell time with some very little kids (who are apparently, not terrified of him).

To waste some more time we stop at Popa Falls Park. Popa Falls is a park and campground, and it has a nice little restaurant that serves sandwiches. Knowing that Namibian sandwiches are huge, we order two, and split them. We run into some nice Australians who have run out of gas, and have only a few Namibian dollars (no ATMS in this area), which they plan to use to buy gas. The gas station is expecting a delivery later this afternoon. Luckily, Popa Falls takes credit cards, and the Australians (who are driving all over Africa) were smart enough to throw a tent into the car (side note, the next morning the station does have gas, so the Australians got off ok).

We decide to drive down to see the falls, but the road gets too bumpy for the car, and we’re pretty sure Mom and Dad will not be able to make the final hike. Besides, we understand that Popa Falls are not wildly impressive – and we have just seen Victoria – so we turn the car around, and head to the Ndhovu Safari Lodge, in Divundu.

If you stay anywhere in Namibia, stay at the Ndhovu Safari Lodge. After Mr. Piggy-Pig at the last lodge, it’s a pleasure to be greeted by owner Horst Kock – a man devoted to Africa, proud of Namibia, and truly concerned about all of his employees. He’s such a nice guy.

Horst sells Penzo Pottery in a little hut on the grounds. This is absolutely beautiful stuff from Zimbabwe, and is becoming harder to come by as under Mugabe’s presidential term for life, a paintbrush probably cost $14 American right now. However, Horst tells us that the Disney Company has reached an agreement with Penzo to do some sort of pottery for it’s theme park stores. Dear God, if anyone can save the Penzo line, it’s The Mouse.

I bought a sugar bowl and creamer.

Have I mentioned that hippos have been bellowing away? I change into my swimsuit and hang out by the pool listening to the snorting/harrumphing/calls of the “water horses.” The rest of the traveling companions join me. Pat and I cannot believe how gorgeous that guy is. We think they might be Italian, and if all men aged that well, women would not be called the fairer sex.

We pass on the boat trip because we’ve done two boat trips on The Great Trek, and this one appears to already be bought out by the Germans. There is a huge party of Germans (some who live in South Africa and Australia) staying in the camping area of the lodge. Their journey is part of a birthday celebration. We figure, by default, that the tour will be in German.

We walk down to a little dock and watch hippos frolic. They are in the distance, but you do not get close to hippos (see my comments about them killing more people in Africa than any other animal). It’s fun to watch them, and they make the most bizarre noises. One of the German ladies comes down to fish off the little dock, and almost immediately gets her expensive hook/weight caught on some really tough grass. It’s an enjoyable half hour watching hippos and her determined attempts to free her hook. As we walk away, I turn back for a moment and see her stripping down to go into the water and get her hook back. She’s braving the hippos, crocodiles and flukes (small creatures who burrow into your skin and lay eggs). Later I’ll discover that flukes only like still water, so you won’t find them in rivers. I’ll also realize she’s in – at the max – two feet of water, so would see any hippos. However, the crocodiles are still a threat.

For the record, I did see her at breakfast the next morning.

So, what with all the Germans and all the chalets full, every place in the big dining gazebo is taken. We are seated in “the bar” which is separated from the actual “dining room” by a three-foot high wall that’s only the length of our table – so it’s really more of an area-delineator than a wall. They are so short on plates that we see Horst running over to the Penzo store for more plates (he uses all Penzo-ware anyway). And there will be none of this two-forks at the place setting. Hang on to your fork please.

Horst tells us that there will be entertainment tonight. Oh, swell. Is that drumming? Yes, they’re having a celebration in the nearby village. Wow, how cool. We assume that this is the entertainment, and using a flashlight, Pat and I escort Mom and Dad back to their chalet/tent. As we walk by the dining gazebo, Horst tells us we must come back. The staff has put together something special for tonight. It was all their idea, and we must come see it. Pat and I obediently turn back, collect Mom and Dad, and take our seats once again.

The entire staff has turned out to sing for the German Gentleman’s birthday. Some of the staff are in costume – the women are in grass skirts with these amazing grass wigs, which I really cannot describe. Others are wearing their regular work clothes. Some of the men have drums. They walk, sort-of-dance-step in singing:

You are welcome
You are welcome
You are welcome
To Ndhovu Lodge

The woman in front is leading the singing, and she carries flowers and a lighted candle in what appears to be a mayonnaise jar. This is given to the birthday boy. Next we are treated to a chorus of “Happy Birthday To You”, followed by “How Old Are You Now?”

And now that the niceties are out of the way, the evening really begins. Assembling themselves into a semi-circle, the staff has a quick whispered consultation, and with that the concert begins. I have no idea what they were singing, but it was amazing. Yes, I know it’s common knowledge that the call and response of gospel and spirituals comes out of Africa, but that night we all saw it. One person takes the lead, and with an eruption of harmony, the rest pick up the song.

At some point, Dad leans over to Horst and says something along the lines of, you’ll be passing the hat for them, won’t you? Horst gets this expression on his face like Dad has just suggested we slice the bread before putting it in the bag. Now Horst becomes obsessed with finding the perfect sized bowl to pass. That bowl turns out to be the one sitting on the bar wall, right behind my chair.

Since, of course, we didn’t bring our wallets to dinner, once the concert ends, I run (with flashlight) to the chalet/tent that Pat and I share, and grab the kitty. I should have grabbed Pat’s camera, but I didn’t want to take the time to look for it. Drat. Remember the first rule of Namibia is never go anywhere without the camera.

Horst tried to get Dad to take the bowl around, but Dad gave it to our waiter and told him to do it. The wallets open, the money comes out. So, were all standing around talking when suddenly, from the entrance to the bar, where the staff has gathered around the young man with the now full tip bowl, comes this high-pitched yip-yip-yipping and the singing resumes.

Look, if someone helps you with your bags, you give them $0.50 Namibian. That night, we put $20 into that bowl – and I think a lot of people were much more generous.

And the singing is going on and on and on. We finally give in, grab the flashlight, and take Mom and Dad back to their chalet/tent. Back in our chalet/tent, I take a shower and mention to Pat that it’s 11:00. That’s the latest we’ve stayed up on The Great Trek. Just as we’re getting into bed I ask Pat, “Is that German?”

Yes, one of the German’s is now serenading the African staff with what sounds like a lullaby. It’s gorgeous. Then softly, the drums begin. And so we are sung to sleep in German with excellent rhythm.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006
The Great Trek Continues
Day Eight

Breakfast stops serving at 9:30, and Pat and I almost miss it. Mom and Dad are already there. They were up at 5 AM, and saw a hippo family frolicking.

According to Horst, the Germans and the staff were up until 2 AM. Yet, breakfast is jammed. We tell Horst that the performance last night was fantastic. Horst is insistent that we tell the staff that. It was all their idea. They deserve the compliment, not them. Heck, you compliment Horst on the food and he’ll ask you to go over to the kitchen and tell the cook (which one of the Germans does). So, when the ladies wrap up our Penzo pottery we say thank you, and thank you for last night. When we are helped with our luggage, we say thank you and thanks for last night. When we walk past the groundskeepers we say last night was wonderful, thank you.

So, after getting gas (and thinking about the Australians) we head off back through the Caprivi Game Reserve and out of the Caprivi. Tonight we will stop at the Khorab Safari Lodge (Place of Rough Stones) in Otavi. You basically stop here because it’s the place to break your journey between Etosha and Windhoek. I’m thinking, heck it’s only four more hours; we can push on through. But by the time we get to Otavi, I’m ready to stop. Driving through Africa can really wear you out.

It’s too chilly to go in the pool, so Pat and I play Uno. Then we have dinner. Mom, Dad, Pat and I make our nightly toast, “We’re still talking to each other!”

Wednesday, October 25, 2006.
The Great Trek Ends
Day Nine

The most interesting thing that happened on the journey home is that I had to hop out of the car to open the gate to the Khorab Safari Lodge so Pat could drive the car through. Right behind us were a bunch of South Africans who had also been staying at the lodge. They tipped me for opening the gate (it was a joke, but I made $5 Namibian).

Since I was the self-appointed water girl on The Great Trek, I’ll take this time to rate the various types of bottled water available in Namibia.
➢ Nestley - fine
➢ Bonaqua (Ocke) – not so great
➢ Hex Valley (South Africa) – ok.
➢ Gesundbrun – from Karstveld area of Norther Namibia – I didn’t like this one
➢ Rhino for Erongo – Thank you for your support * Omaruru Beverages – fine, and I think you’re helping to save rhinos.

Namibians are very proud of their water. It’s clean. It’s well managed. They aren’t draining lakes and underground reserves in order to “make the desert bloom” or create wide expanses of green lawns. However, I don’t like the taste of Namibian water. Sorry.

We pull into Pats and start doing laundry. It’s a beautiful, hot day, and I make Pat help me pull the tarp off the pool. Unfortunately the pool vacuum had a kink in the hose, so it was not traveling around the pool sucking up pool dirt. So the bottom of the pool is dirty. I don’t care. I’m in there. Soon, Dad is in his swimsuit playing pool boy, vacuuming away. Mom comes out and makes him put on his hat. Then Mom and Pat are both get into their suits and hop into the pool. We were in there for a couple of hours. It felt so good to float around in the warm water and just relax.

That night we had Kentucky Fried Chicken. Alas, you cannot get the Colonel’s biscuits in Namibia.

Thursday, October 26, 2006.
The Small Trek

We’re taking off again today for a quick overnight trip to Swapkomund and Walvis (pronounced Walvish) Bay. So, we are packing a lot less. But first, it’s time to visit the Embassy of the United States of America to the Republic of Namibia.

Pat works for Joyce A. Barr, Ambassador of the United States of America To the Republic of Namibia. Pat apparently hates having to serve tea a cookies (IE be a waitress) when Joyce has guests, so Joyce has made sure that we have tea and cookies. When we pose for pictures, Dad gets to sit in the ambassador’s chair. I’m wearing a t-shirt and Capris, so I assure you, this was not a formal affair.

Then it’s back to the parking lot of the American Embassy of the United States of America to the Republic of Namibia, and we’re off to the Skeleton Coast.
It takes about 2-3 hours to drive to the coast. The land goes from green and rolling, to flat dessert, to the rolling dunes of the Skeleton Coast. On the way out see some ostriches, some baboons, and the Uranium mines. There is also an extensive pipeline, which we later find out brings fresh water to the mines.

We arrive in Swapkomund and the air is wet and heavy (the ocean is right over there) and I worry that I didn’t bring a pair of jeans. But in just walking around the shops we quickly warm up. I finally find one of those white oval stickers which people put on the back of their cars to tell you where they are from. For example, if you’re from South Africa the white oval sticker reads, ZA. If you’re from Namibia, your white oval sticker reads, NAM. This cracks me up. And when I buy the sticker I explain to the woman behind the counter that in America most people will think our sticker refers to Vietnam. Either she gets the joke, or she’s smart enough to pretend she gets it.

Dad gets one too, but his NAM sticker also has the symbol of Namibia (Kudus) and the flag.

Now it’s time to head south along the coast to Walvis Bay where we will be staying tonight. It’s a bout half-hour drive. On your left (east) are the wild Lawrence of Arabia dunes. On the right (west) is the ocean. Between Swapkomund and Walvish Bay are a few small developments, including Long Beach. Not even a ¼ of a mile long, Long Beach has some cottages and a few lodges, including The Burning Sands. Yes! The Burning Sands is the place where Brad and Angelina stayed while awaiting the birth of Baby Shiloh.

We stop and take a picture. The guy who would take your luggage and tell you where to park your car laughs at me – as well he should. I really cannot stress how un-secluded and un-proposing The Burning Sands is. Pat and some gals from the Embassy had rented a little apartment in Long Beach while Brad and Angelina were there. I’m guessing it would have been a five-minute walk from their place to The Burning Sands if they had walked slowly, or could have penetrated the international press gauntlet.

By the way, the folks at the American Embassy (of the United States of America to the Republic of Namibia) were all excited that Brad and Angelina would have to come into the Embassy to secure a passport and social security number for their bundle of joy. Joyce, however, decided she didn’t want to deal with all the hoopla, and dashed everyone’s hopes by declaring that the appropriate officials would go to Brad and Angelina.

So, the proper officials numbered two, but a third person tagged along simply because she was a big fan of Brad’s. While the two who actually needed to be there put together the passport and issued the social security number, Brad’s number one fan – knowing Brad is into architecture – casually let drop that the US will be building a new embassy in Windhoek. They chatted happily.

No, they didn’t see the kids (nap time) though Angelina offered (no, as long as you say this is a picture of your kid, we’re ok with that). All three did get pictures with the glamorous couple.

We’re staying at The Pelican Bay Hotel which was officially opened on the 12thNovember 2003 by His Excellency, Dr. Sam Nujoma, The President of the Republic of Namibia (I read the plaque). We chose this hotel because every place in Swapkomund, Long Beach and Walvis Bay is booked, and Pat had to have someone at the Embassy pull in favors to get us the rooms. It’s right next to the Walvis Bay Yacht Club (sounds much grander than it is) and The Raft restaurant where Pat and I ate last time I was in Africa.

On that trip, Pat and I were dazzled by the flamingos, which flew around the lagoon as we ate. This time, we are dazzled by the Raft’s expansion. And, we cannot believe the size of the crowd – every table is taken. The place is packed. The meal is excellent, and Dad cannot get over the fact that the bill for four meals, with alcohol, and dessert, comes to about $50 American – with tip. The coffee isn’t good, but there is not good coffee to be had in Namibia.

Friday, October 27, 2006
Pelican Tours

Today is our final boat tour. Mom gets a bit concerned when she sees that the boat is a bit smaller than she envisioned. But the captain (who can’t believe that Pat has brought another group of tourists on his boat) brings her into the enclosed area, and gets her comfortable. We zip around the actual bay of Walvis Bay, enjoying the beautiful day and seeing:
➢ 2 kinds of Dolphins
➢ 2 kinds of Whales (one of which was called a “right whale” by American whalers, because it was the right sort of whale to kill and harvest)
➢ Gulls
➢ Pelicans (flying right along the boats_
➢ Cormorants
➢ Flamingos

We get a champagne brunch featuring local oysters; and since not a lot of folks on the boat seem to be into the oysters, Dad, Pat and I feel free to make absolute pigs of ourselves.

Then it’s off the boat, and goodbye to the Skeleton Coast. On the way back, I swear we saw the same 4 ostriches that we saw on our way out.

Pat is so tired, that she pulls over and asks me to drive. If anyone remembers my last trip to Africa where we got in a big snit about driving, you might be as surprised as I was. I drove for about an hour and Dad told me he thought I was a better driver than Pat. He said this when Pat was out of the car, but I made sure she knew he said that. I don’t know if Dad just said that to give me a pat on the head, or if he truly believed it but – Thanks Dad! I love you very much!

Back at Pat’s we relax. Tomorrow is our last day for a bit of shopping, and more importantly it’s the day of Pat’s party.

Saturday, October 28, 2006
I’m not going into detail about Pat, Mom and mine’s last chance dash through Windhoek to buy stuff we don’t need. I got Christmas ornaments.

No, the big news is that after two years in Namibia, and living in a house that could easily accommodate 100 –150 guests for a cocktail party – Pat is using her parents’ visit as an excuse to throw a party. Being my sister, a woman who has no interest in cooking, she has arranged to have the even catered. We are having kabobs, potato salad, buns, beer, wine, soda, veggie crudités, and snacks. The caterer is also working Octoberfest in downtown Windhoek (guess what – they’re German!), so we got two teenage boys working the barbeque. I give them beer. They like me.

Pat knows from experience that all the embassy people always drink wine and hardly drink beer. So of course, everyone drank beer and the wine was practically untouched.

Now, not everyone at the embassy is in the Foreign Service. I’ve met folks who work for the civil service, the Department of Agriculture, the DEA (in Malaysia – they don’t seem to have a drug trade in Namibia), the various branches of the military, the Center for Disease Control (not a government agency at all!) and the UN. But if you’re traveling the world, and you get a new assignment every few months, you got to know how to mingle. It was a great party and I met a lot of great people.

I was chatting with _____ whose daughter Lilly is adopted from China. As Lilly demonstrated her uncanny ability to walk along the tops of coolers, I told ______ that when visiting Pat in Israel I had heard about the only couple to ever adopt a boy out of China. Oh, she knows two couples that got boys from China. One of the boys had no earlobes, which is why he was put up for adoption. That stunned me. It doesn’t seem that disfiguring to me, and if you want your son to have earlobes, I’m guessing the pediatrician could make two quick snips.

Later, my friend Margaret Pai tells me that in Chinese tradition, long earlobes mean a long life. So no earlobes marked this little boy for a short life.

The things you learn.

I also promise sets of Naomi Novik’s fantasy trilogy to ______ and ______ (you can always find another geek if you just shout out – Who likes Star Trek? Lord of the Rings? Anyone?).

And, I listen to a lot of folks gush about how great my sister is. Which is quite nice. But if they think she’s terrific, they must be really impressed by me.

Sunday, October 29, 2006.
We are leaving today around noon. So we are going to go to an early mass at the Seminary rather than go to the later mass at the Cathedral. Pat’s never really liked the Cathedral in Windhoek as the sermon is in German, and the organist play everything like a dirge. When our Aunt Louise visited, they lucked out and got superb visiting musicians at the Cathedral.

Well, once again, we luck out. The Seminary church is very small. The priest appears to be Indian. And the seminary students sing like Ladysmith Mugumbo on Paul Simon’s Graceland. There are about 9-11 seminary students, and the sound that erupts out of them is stunning. They sing traditional hymns in that distinctive 400-part harmony with a great rhythm. They sing hymns in other languages. It’s the priest’s birthday, so they sing Happy Birthday, and throw in a second chorus:

May God bless you now.
May God bless you now.
May God bless you father.
May God bless you now.

After mass Dad is congratulating the priest on his birthday, and compliments him on the music. The priest (who definitely has an Indian accent) shakes his head and says, he knows, the music is amazing. He’s still not used to it. And the seminary students don’t even practice the hymns.

We have plenty of time before we have to get to the airport. We’re all packed and content to sit around. I find myself curled up in a chair reading a book during my last few hours in Africa. Soon, we’re off to the airport.

The only exciting thing to report about our flight home is that we shared it with two Lionesses. On departing South Africa the pilot informed us that the lions were on their way to Washington, DC (the National Zoo, perhaps?), and seemed very tickled to have the additional passengers. During our refueling stop in Dakar, we switch pilots. This pilot is also highly pleased to be ferrying lions. He tells us he went down to the cargo hold to check on them – that they are ladies, they are drugged, and they are right under business class.

Well, South African Airlines gets us and the lionesses into Washington, DC right on time. Vincent is waiting to pick up Mom and Dad. I tip him $10 Namibian, hug Mom and Dad goodbye, and hop the plane back to NYC.

Coda: Pat’s next assignment is Dhaka, Bangladesh. I swear I am not going.

Visiting Alex in Utah, May 2004

2006-11-12T18:01:00.000-08:00

My Trip To Utah

How I drank in private clubs
Hiked up and down dusty trails
Played with kittens
Learned to tell the difference between an Audi, Jetta, and/or Psatt

Alexandria Sage, my roomie for several exciting months in 1995-96 on 14th Street in NYC recently got assigned by the Associated Press to Salt Lake City, Utah. Many people received Alexandria’s email plea to come visit. I checked my frequent flier miles, found that Continental flies direct to Salt Lake, and booked my flight from Saturday, May 22 to Saturday May 29. Alex gleefully began planning trips to Utah’s great National Parks, enthusing about hiking and physical activities. Um, yeah.

So, I have to buy hiking boots. Me, in hiking boots. I am a woman who has spent her life trying not to make her feet look big. Oh well. I also check out the smaller back packs which cost $40.00, and end up with a child’s backpack called The Tadpole, in slimming black for only $20.00. I’m ready.

My flight to Utah was packed. Small plane, but every single seat taken. Yes, we have a Mormon missionary on the plane, Elder Jones. He appears to be 19 and was traveling with his Dad and his sisters (I’m guessing). And though he has his bible open on the tray table in front of him, he has fallen asleep listening to his walkman. I’m feeling really devilish, so I keep ordering wine and caffeine drinks in the hopes that I’m scandalizing folks. No one cares. The couple in the seats next to me were flying to Utah for their granddaughter’s baptism. The mother, their youngest of their four daughters, had died in childbirth this past February. I got all the details. It was very sad, but also very uplifting. It seems their daughter had really lived a great life, traveling the world and making a great many friends. It was a very positive if heartbreaking conversation.

Once in Salt Lake City I really do feel I am in the whitest place on earth. And granted, I do fit right in. Still, I decide to start counting ethnic minorities. Or, as we call them in NYC, the people we live next to and work with. I am not counting the one Asian and the two African Americans who were on the plane with me.

I’ll tell you my count of minorities, total, including the national parks, right now. I counted 7 African-Americans, 1 person whose background appeared to be Indian or Pakastani, and no Asians who weren’t tourists actually from Asia. Utah has some Native Tribes, and I did see one park ranger who looked at least a quarter.

Alex greeted me at the baggage claim, and once I had collected my red suitcase from the sea of black suitcases, I ran out to her Jeep Cherokee to begin my western adventure. Yee-ha!

And now, here’s my take on Salt Lake City, or as I like to call it, Not Actually on the Salt Lake Large Suburb. You can get from the airport to Alex’s apartment in, oh, about 20 minutes. There’s not much traffic. There’s not much of anything. We see Temple Square and the Church of Latter Day Saints Convention Center. This convention center is a bit creepy as from the front it looks like something out of the Mussolini/Hitler school mixed with Washington, DC federal style architecture. From the side it has a sort of Frank Lloyd Wright look. And if that’s not enough of a mess, on top it has a sort of quasi-religious tower that I believe is supposed to compliment the Mormon Temple across the way. As an architectural statement, it’s a big stinky mish-mash. You don’t go to see the boat show at the Church of Latter Day Saints Convention Center. And if Book Expo America is ever held in Not Actually on the Salt Lake Large Suburb, it won’t be held here. Instead they have Church oriented conventions there.

The Temple is the center of Salt Lake Suburb. Literally. The streets radiate out from it. 100 S. Temple Street is 1 block from the Temple. 400 W. Temple Street is 4 blocks from the Temple. And 7800 North Temple Street is an exit off the highway, and is 78 blocks from the Temple. Why they don’t call 7800 North Temple, 78 Temple Street, I don’t know. And why are they all called streets? Why not make the North and South roads Avenues? When Alex tells me she works in the Deseret Building at 30 100 South Temple my head reels. Alex says it takes about a week, then you start thinking in a big square.

Amazingly enough, Alex lives across from the Catholic Church in a converted convent. The Catholic Church is quite impressive (guess they feel kind of pressured to be grand), and so is Alex’s apartment. There’s a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom designed so that you can’t shut the door unless you move the toilet. It also has a well proportioned bedroom, dining room, and living room. I am reunited with Alex’s cats, Boris and Phoebe. I am also introduced to the mommy cat and four identical kittens that Alex is sheltering until they are old enough to be fixed and adopted. The kittens do not understand the concept of “suitcase” and do not get out of the way. So, I scoop up kittens as I roll into the living room (where I’ll be sleeping on the futon). Alex shows me how to operate the TV, enjoy the fabulous “alternate classical” radio station, assures me there is no way whatsoever to shut the bathroom door, and takes off to finish her shift at AP. I soon crash with four kittens, mommy cat, and Phoebe piled on top of me. Boris is off sulking in the corner.

Next morning Alex and I go our for breakfast, then drive downtown to Temple Square. It takes two minutes to get there and three minutes to find a parking space. We walk around Temple Square and of course, everything is closed because it’s Sunday. We do get to go to the Mormon Museum. It’s called something else, but it’s all about the history of the Mormons. The gift shop was closed so I didn’t get a t-shirt.

Now, I remember a couple of years ago reading that Brigham Young University, which does not allow their male students to have any facial hair, began doctoring all the pictures of Brigham Young so he appeared clean shaven. Consequently, I noticed that the museum had sort of taken the same track. All the modern illustrations show Brigham Young and Joseph Smith and every other Mormon man with no facial hair. All the old pictures (that might be worth something), photographs, and statues (which are hard to melt or re-chisel) show them with facial hair. The coolest thing I saw in the museum was “the watch.”

Let me explain. Before I came to Utah, Alex insisted I read John Krakauer’s UNDER THE BANNER OF HEAVEN. The main story centers on two brothers who killed their sister-in-law and niece because God told them to. These two brothers had left the mainstream Mormon Church and become wacko fundamentalists who believed in taking multiple wives and ignoring the laws of men.

He also tells the history of the Mormon Church. Including Joseph Smith’s assassination by an angry mob. When the mob came in shooting, one of Smith’s companions got shot in the pocket watch. I believe it saved his life. It also marked the exact time of Smith’s assassination, a time that it is recognized every year by Mormons.

So, when I saw the watch, I said, “Wow, the watch!” And two kids who I am assuming are Mormons were like, really? THE WATCH? Cool. Then I noticed that in the drawing of the assassination no one had a beard.

Then we went to Borders and I got some coffee. Then we walked around the mall and I got some socks. Alex got some leg warmers to wear on her arms (it’s involved, I won’t go into it). Then we went to Old Navy to get Alex some shorts. I discovered that Salt Lake Suburb has a nice little transit system, which they installed for the Olympics. We drove up to the University of Utah, and drove by Elizabeth Smart’s house. We just drove by. We did not pull into the street and stop and take pictures. In her capacity as a reporter for AP, Alex interviewed Mr. Smart on the second anniversary of Elizabeth’s abduction. He wanted to talk about the foundation that the family had set up to help families who are going through, or went through, the same thing their family did. Alex had gotten a tip that Elizabeth had a part time job playing the harp in town, and Mr. Smart said that was true but please keep it vague. So she did. And so do I. I’m not totally tacky.

That night Alex cooked for me and it was yummy. We watched Prime Suspect, played with the cats and went to bed.

The next morning the toilet overflowed and Alex went to work. I walked down-suburb encountering a few homeless folks. Not normally something that would freak me out, but I keep thinking of Elizabeth Smart. I give the homeless wide berth. I found a Starbucks by following the Starbucks cups that walked by. I got a NY Times, a croissant, and a coffee. And I sat there. For two hours!

Off to the Salt Lake Suburb headquarters of AP. It’s in the Deseret building. Deseret is what the Mormons wanted to name the state. Congress chose Utah. I’m with Congress on this one as Utah is a neat-o name for a state, and the only “U” state in the 50 and “D” is already claimed by Deleware. The Deseret is the Mormon newspaper. The Salt Lake Tribune is the non-denominational newspaper. And AP is AP.

At AP folks are working on the big story of the day – a cafeteria lady at a local school was shot dead by her husband who then turned the gun on himself. I meet everyone and entertain myself by reading their bulletin board of weird stories. My favorite is that geologists say Utah is due for a big earthquake. The capital building is being made earthquake safe. However, the library at the University of Utah is a death trap waiting to happen.

Alex and I got pretty good Chinese food and hit a terrific thrift store. I managed not to buy anything, but Alex got a furry skirt. The weather was turning, so we passed on going to a big mine outside of town, which is supposed to be pretty amazing to see. Instead, I made Alex drive me out to see the Great Salt Lake. I had the same reaction to the Great Salt Lake as I did to the Dead Sea. See my travel log on Israel. For those of you who don’t have the Israel Log saved away on your hard drive, I’ll recap my reaction to the Dead Sea. “That’s it?” Oh, and it smells. Which explains why Salt Lake Suburb is not actually on the Salt Lake.

Alex and I run errands. Then we get ready to go out to a private club for drinks and $0.77 oysters.

Sidebar: Utah’s incomprehensible alcohol laws made semi-comprehensible.
In some restaurants you can buy wine and beer. However, no hard liquor can be consumed outside of the privacy of your home, a private function, or a private club. So, everyone in Salt Lake Suburb who drinks belongs to a private club. Or as they are known in the rest of the world, a bar or restaurant. When Alex’s sister lived in Utah (she taught at Brigham Young) you had to be sponsored by a member of the club. So you’d walk in, ask to join, and the hostess would yell to one of the guys at the bar, “Hey Bill, you want to sponsor this chick?” Or some such. And Bill would say, “Sure!”

These days you can just join. You can get a pass for the night (know to the rest of the world as a cover charge), the week, the month, the summer, a year, or a lifetime. Lifetime memberships usually cost $20.00. As a member you can bring in a billion guests. There are no tennis courts. And when I asked Alex to introduce me around to all her fellow club members, she laughed as if I had said something funny.

Now, all these club fees go to pay the salaries of the Utah Alcohol Board (not what they are actually called, but you get the idea). None of these guys drink. So while you can only get one ounce of alcohol in your drink (small martinis), you can order and extra shot. And I’m guessing you can pour that extra shot into your glass. Also, flavorings don’t count as alcohol. Triple sec, Kahlua, and Bailey’s Irish Crème are defined as flavorings.

We ran into Alex’s neighbor Carl, and his girlfriend Sierra. The club was really busy that night, so we went to the club’s sister club down in the basement to have some calamari, oysters, and one ounce drinks. Alex would have had to pay a couple of dollars to expand her membership to the basement half of the club, but luckily Carl already had that membership. After two rounds (or two ounces vodka for me), we were told that our table upstairs was ready and we left the basement, walked ten feet on the sidewalk, and entered the club for another one-ounce round and a dozen oysters.

Home and to bed! Tomorrow, we become pioneer women.

PART II:

Alex’s family has a tradition of playing On the Road Again by Willie Nelson. Unfortunately, Alex’s family only has one tape and her father has it right now. So, we sing it – what we know of it.

Alex’s favorite road trip tape includes Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, George Jones and Hank Williams. I had never really listened to Merle Haggard, but boy did I start listening now. It seems Merle’s songs are about either getting drunk or love-it-or-leave-it-American-Patriotism with segues into the Hobo Jungles. I wonder how Merle feels about the current war? I certainly know what he thinks about Vietnam.

My favorite Merle Haggard song is called Daddy Frank. I will now give you a sample of the lyrics.

Daddy Frank played the guitar and the French harp
Sister played the ringing tambourine
Mamma couldn't hear the pretty music
She read our lips and helped the family sing

That little band was all a part of living
And our only means of living at the time
And it wasn't like no normal family combo
Cause Daddy Frank the guitar man was blind

I theorized that sister had no legs and only one arm, so she had to bang the tambourine on her head. I also theorized that there was a brother no one talked about who sewed the costumes, arranged the lights, and never married. Alex told me that I had ruined Daddy Frank for her, forever. I do not feel particularly bad about that.

We’re taking the scenic route, and we’re passing through little towns that border the either side of the road. I can always find the Temple, as the streets will read, 300 N., 200 N., 100 N., 100 S., 200 S., end of town.

I keep seeing signs for Cheyenne, and thinking that some people name their children Cheyenne. I decide to name my children Cheyenne, Montana and Utah.

Eventually, we tore the tape out of the player, and put in ABBA. We zipped into Bryce Canyon National Park – where’s there’s always a sign, if you know where to look for it. It’s just around the bend, behind the bush, covered in dust, or placed off to the side where you are sure to miss it. We couldn’t check in until 4:00, so we parked the car at the entrance to the Navajo Trail and began our descent.

Bryce is all about going down into the canyon, then when you’re nice and tired, climbing out. You start out looking down at the hoodoos, and finish staring up at them. What’s a hoodoo? Well, imagine a big tall mesa. Then imagine the mesa wearing away leaving hundreds of huge pillars of red rock wearing hats of white rocks. That’s a hoodoo. They look like people, ducks, tall turrets of a ruined city, and in one case, Queen Victoria. The Native Americans in the area stayed clear of the area believing it was filled with people who had been cursed and turned into stone. I can see that. Of course, it wasn’t a Native American who told us that, so it could all be bunk.

So, once down in the canyon floor, we detoured onto the Queen’s Garden Trail, took in the Queen Victoria rock, and climbed out. This hiking is easy, I’m doing fine.

While checking in I hear a woman address her toddler as, “Aryan.” No, I did not mishear. I wonder if the other two kids with her are named Fascist and Hitler. Alex and I sign up for a horse ride down into the canyon along Peekaboo trail for the next morning. Alex cannot wear her cowboy hat, and this makes her sad as it really completes her outfit. But it might blow off and scare the horses, so she takes comfort in the fact she can still wear her funky, fringed cowboy jacket with faux leopard skin panel.

Then we checked into our cabin. The guidebooks make these cabins out to be phenomenal. They say the lodge is all that. It really isn’t. I mean, it’s fine, and the cabins are ok, and it’s convenient to stay in the park. But they are nothing to write home about.

Our dinner reservations are for 7:30 so we take an easy hike along the top of the canyon, from Inspiration Point to another Swamp Canyon Overlook. We look down into the vast scenic wonders of the park. Once again, I’m impressed by hiking ability along this pretty flat trail.

Then it was off to dinner. The guidebooks rave about the Bryce Lodge dining room. They praise the huge American flag (it’s large), the two giant fireplaces (blocked by the salad bar) and the views from the huge picture windows (the building and the parking lot, or the building depending what direction you are facing). We had 7:30 reservations and didn’t get seated until after 8:00. It’s a nice restaurant, but it’s really your only choice. If you just want a sandwich you got to leave the lodge. You can get wine and beer, but no alcohol because Bryce doesn’t have a private club.

The guidebooks also raved about the gift shop and I must say it was impressive. First time I saw a dream catcher that didn’t look like a piece of crap. But after waiting around for my food (which was fine) I was too tired to shop.

So back to the cabin. Alex smartly brought along vodka, but I need a mixer. So I went to bed without. Then, when I was in a semi-wake part of my sleep cycle I heard it. THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE CABIN AND IT’S SCURRYING ABOUT. I finally turned on the lights, woke up Alex, and determined that whatever it was, it was nowhere need the bags of food. So I shut off the light, AND WE BOTH HEARD IT! I think it must have been in the walls, whatever it was. Did. Not. Sleep. Well.

Next morning we get up, load the car (we will miss check-out time on our horseback ride), and head off dressed in layers to take a horseback ride down into Bryce Canyon along the Peek-a-boo Trail. After I described my experience as merry-go-round, I get assigned a mule named Kikaboo. Alex gets a horsey named Ubi (pronounced You-Be). Alex has ridden a few times, but more importantly, she has a cool leather jacket with fringe.

Our cowboy guides are Shawn (who we are told twice is married to the boss’s daughter), Stetson (which I think is a nickname, until I find out that Shawn’s son is also named Stetson) and J.B. (who I’m going to assume is named for the Scotch). I am sad, because here in Utah, my children Cheyenne, Montana, and Utah won’t even raise an eyebrow.

The horses and mules have been trained to walk along the edge of the trail. Yikes! I am thrilled that we are on beasts of burden. This is a major descent, and we will go up some major ascents as well. Our tour includes the “Wall of Windows” (there are two windows so the whole wall of windows is a bit exaggerated) and some cowboy jokes. My favorite is, “We call this switchback the widow maker. Hard on the men, but easy on the women.”

We stop for a bathroom break and for the first time in my life, I walk bowlegged. Then it’s back up! And up and up and up (I did mention accents, didn’t I?). I am thrilled to get back to corral. Since I didn’t bring any money with me, I buy my picture (that’s me on a mule!) back at the lodge, and we drop off a $10.00 tip for the cowboys. Oh, and I’m in pain.

Alex and I go to the restaurant and order a quesadilla to split. Another thing to know about the only restaurant in Bryce, the portions are huge.

So, we stop at the Visitors Center to find out where we should go for our last hike. He suggested Tower Bridge. It’s a sight to see and the wildflowers along the path are fabulous. We hiked about a mile, saw three types of flowers, and decided that we didn’t need to keep going.

Back into the Cherokee and off to the Mossy Cave trail, which you actually have to leave Bryce to access. Of course, sinage being what it is, we pass by the Mossy Cave trail. After awhile, we think that maybe, just maybe, that turn off where the cars were parked way back there is the starting point of the Mossy Cave Trail. Sure enough, once we pull into the turn off, we see a sign clearly hidden behind the parked cars telling us this is the Mossy Cave Trail.

I liked the Mossy Cave Trail. It was short and easy. I liked the Mossy Cave. It was pretty. And I liked the little river that I stuck my feet in.

Back in the Cherokee, we stop off at the bed and breakfast called, Buffalo Sage and I take Alex’s picture in front of the sign (her last name is Sage). Buffalo and I stick in the Merle Haggard tape, and head off for Zion.

ZION
Before I left for Utah I complained about the name of the National Parks I would be visiting. Shouldn’t the parks retain the Native American names? What’s with Zion? Larry Shapiro, an editor at Book-of-the-Month Club told me I would understand the name Zion when I saw it.

Now, logically I do. I guess, if you were really religious you would say, “Wow, this place is a real Zion!” But even then, I think it would be incorrect. Dictionary.com defines Zion as Israel the land, Israel the people, a religious community sacredly devoted to God, or an idealized, harmonious community – a utopia. Zion National Park is really impressive and cool. But it is not Israel, nor does it have a population. Ah but wait! At one time, there were farmers, toiling away at the rich earth of a vast, now dry, lake bed. I’m guessing they named the town that is no longer there, Zion. And golly gee, had I been a settler planting crops on the lush soil of that ancient lake bed, getting my water from the merrily rolling Virgin River, and surrounded by huge mountains and amazing natural scenery, I might have thought myself in Zion too.

I preferred Zion to Bryce and here’s the reason. Zion has the Virgin River running through it, and I like water. It makes me happy.

Bryce is a big canyon. So you start up high and work your way down. Zion is … not really a valley … more like a passage through huge, massive rocks that’s broad enough to farm but still narrow. No hoodoos. In Zion you start down low and work your way up.

Alex and I zoomed into Zion, and immediately got caught behind a large RV being towed by a large truck. It crawled along, swinging out in a lard-like way as it made the hairpin turns. Alex was furious. Most of Zion is off-limits to private vehicles. You can get as far as the visitor center, and then you either park or leave. The camping sight is right next to the visitor center so we were stuck behind this guy the whole way. The scenery was amazing.

Once at the Visitor Center we got all the information from not that well-informed folks. They shut the Center at 5:00, which is just plain silly.

Back to the guidebooks. They sing the praises of the lodge at Zion and the cabins in Zion and how you really want to stay in Zion. God forbid you stay in Springdale, the little town outside of Zion National Park. You might stay in a perfectly nice hotel, that’s cheaper than the Zion lodge, take a swim in the pool, relax in the hot tub, have a choice of restaurants, and be able to take the terrific little shuttle that zips back and forth between Zion National Park Visitors Center and Springdale. Oh, and we had a stunning view from our room. And we were next to an elk farm. Hence we saw lots of elk, buffalo, and a longhorn cow. Honestly, the only problem was that the room came without a blow dryer, and my hair was flat, flat, flat the whole time.

We went to Oscars where I had a murder burger (“so good it will kill you”) and Alex became involved in trying to save a bird that had fallen out of its nest. This involved the manager of Oscars climbing a ladder, with Alex on his shoulders. The attempts did not work, but everyone at the restaurant was thoroughly entertained. I named the cute little bird Sparky. (We checked back the next night and the birds were fine.) We also had some Polygamy Porter. The slogan is, “Why have just one?”
Next morning we get up and OUCH! It hurts. But we must move, so we get a sandwich for our hike. Then we’re off to The Narrows Outfitters to get the special hiking boots made from a wetsuit material and a stick. To hike the Narrows you have to walk up the Virgin River. Literally. You can wear your hiking boots, but they won’t keep your feet warm, and your boots will be wet. So, sandwich in Tadpole backpack, sticks in hand, we catch the Springdale Shuttle to Zion. Once in Zion, we get off the shuttle, walk through the admission booth, and get on the Zion shuttle. Oh, the humanity! If only we had stayed in the park!!!!
So, we’re on the shuttle and our shuttle driver points out the sights. The Great White Throne, The Court of the Patriarchs (named Abraham, Isaac and Jacob), The Rock of Moroni (or something like that with Moroni’s name that partially blocks Jacob). We’re going to the last shuttle stop, The Temple of Sinawava. I’m guessing that Sinawava is someone from the Book of Mormon. I ask our guide as we’re getting off the shuttle, and he gives a sort of contained exasperated look. I guess he gets that question all the time. Sinawava is one of the Native American coyote gods.
So the first part of this hike is wheelchair accessible and easy. It takes a mile of easy gamboling to get to the steps that lead down to the entrance to the Narrows. Once you go down the steps, your feet are in the water. You start wading upstream for as long as you can. On either side of you are rock walls going up oh, about 1000 feet. Sometimes more. Waterfalls and water-trickles come down into the river. At times you are on a sandbar, but most of the time you are tripping over rocks, rocks, rocks. That’s why you need a stick. Don’t try to do the Narrows without a stick. Or in bare feet. Or in sandals. Or in a dress with matching purse and hat (she didn’t get far). Many people stop at Orderville Pass, where the rocks are about 15 feet apart. Alex and I soldiered on. We were regular Amazons. Then we heard that around the bend the water got up past our waists. So we stopped and ate our sandwich and snacks. Then we stood up. YIKES!
We headed back.
That easy one-mile gambol over the wheelchair accessible part of the path is a lot longer after wading through water for about 3.5 hours.
Back on the shuttle. We get off at the Zion Lodge where we are not staying, and take the path to the three Emerald Pools. Honestly, the highest pool is not so impressive. The middle pool is better. But the waterfall that pours off the middle pool, and falls and falls and falls into the first pool is the best part. Note, the first pool is wheelchair accessible and an easy climb.
We walk back to the lodge, and Alex takes a moment to stop by Zion’s horse paddock to pet the ponies. I find a nice bench and sit down. The special aqua hiking booties are good for keeping your feet warm in the waters, and they’re fine for the easy hikes we are doing this afternoon, but gosh, they are starting to get hot and squishy.
Off to the lodge. Alex gets a soft ice cream and I get an iced tea. For some reason, there are dozens of exchange students working at the National Parks. Their nametags give their names, of course, but also what country they are from. Most seem to be from Asia, though I did spot a Brazil. Alex asked a guy from Thailand if this was part of an exchange program and he answered it was either the National Parks or Walmart. This, of course, did not answer her question.
Back on the shuttle, and off to The Weeping Rock. It’s an easy hike of less than .5 mile, and paved like a sidewalk. However, don’t try it with a wheelchair unless you have a really good engine. It’s pretty straight up. Weeping Rock is really cool, and it’s one rock that is having a really, really bad day. The water is just pouring down this thing. There is no spring up top feeding the waterworks. And underwater source hits rock that it cannot seep into, and so it begins emerging from the rock. The water that is falling on your head first fell to earth 4000 years ago.
Back to the shuttle. Back to the visitor’s center. Walk through the gateway and hop the Springdale shuttle. Gosh, this is so hard!!!! If only we were staying at the Zion Lodge!
So, Alex and I return our boots and sticks, then dive into our pool and hot-tub. We meet an elderly couple who are “dating” and traveling around seeing National Parks, their various children, and ending up in Boulder for their square dancing thingy. Alex and I go out for pasta, buy some candy bars for the next day, then go home and pass out.
Up early the next morning. CRIPES! Alex and I compare pain. We load up the Cherokee, check out, and drive to the park. We park at the visitor’s center and hop the shuttle to take on Angel’s Landing. In the words of one guide-map, “the fact that the National Parks even built this trail is amazing.” First, you go up the easy set of switchbacks to the Refrigerator Canyon. That was my favorite part as it was very cool and relatively flat. Then you get to Walter’s Wiggles – 21 switchbacks that k-i-l-l-e-d me. Never, ever, ever again. Ok, got up to the top, wheezed and drank water and ate a candy bar. Alex is bopping around saying, look at the view, look at the view. Convinced that the view will stay right where it is, I continue sitting. And yes, the view is amazing. Ok, on to the next part.
Now, on the West Rim Trail, we scramble and climb up rocks with a chain pounded into the rock for you to hang on. If you slip, you probably won’t die, but you will slide down, down, down and hurt yourself badly. But I do ok. I get to the top and boy, am I proud. Scrambling isn’t hard! There are no switchbacks, and I am a true pioneer woman (in my hiking boots and Pittsburgh Jr. League t-shirt)! Wow, look at that view! Then Alex points to the next rock up ahead and says, “that’s Angel’s Landing.” And I reply, “You go ahead. I’ll wait for you right here.”
So, I sit with the other folks who felt no need to challenge themselves to climb up the narrow, narrow, scrambling path with a big iron security chain. And the folks who come back basically say, it’s the same view, only higher up. So, you don’t climb for the view. You climb to say, “I climbed that and I didn’t die.” Alex says there is a big flat rock up on Angel’s Landing, perfect for the messenger of God, or a helicopter.
Going down, down, down Alex and I experienced new areas of pain. We compare pain.
Back on the shuttle and back to the Visitors Center. I change my shirt and brush my hair. We both change our shoes. Then it’s back in the Cherokee and out of Zion. Goodbye national parks, we love you so.
THE SHORT TRIP BACK
Alex wanted to show me Best Friends a phenomenal animals sanctuary (she’s been there before), but we’d have to take the tour, and it’s not starting for another hour, and that’s just too much time. So, back in the car. Now, we have to cut west across to the highway, so why not dip quickly into Arizona and take a detour through Colorado City, AZ, which borders on Hilldale, UT – two warring fundamentalist Mormon sects. Yep, that’s right! polygamists!

Polygamists!
Ok, I’m going to stress that the Mormon fundamentalists are not part of the mainstream Mormon Church. Indeed, they have been excommunicated. And, since God speaks to a lot of these guys personally, they polygamists are constantly excommunicating each other and splintering off. So, these are not typical Mormons. But honestly, one doesn’t really grasp that. One makes snarky comments over glasses of Polygamy Porter. Then one actually sees the polygamy enclaves of Colorado City and Hilldale and one understands. The Mormon Church and these nuts are not in the same universe.

Colorado City/Hilldale is a sty. No beehive state industry here. Just squalor. The nicest thing I can say about the place is that pigs were not running in the unpaved streets.

As you drive in you see these huge, huge houses (necessary when you have a couple of wives and dozens of children) that look like a typical McMansion. Then you notice there’s something odd about them. They’re not finished. They’re old, and people are living in them, but the houses have no siding. Just the particle board that one puts up to hold the insulation in place. The yards are piles of dirt. No lawns, no trees, no flowers. Walking along are little girls in high-necked, long-sleeved, down to the ankles dresses with hair in braids. They are tending the children. Or they could be their children as marrying a girl off at 14 is typical. We saw William Jeff’s compound (he’s the leader of the Hilldale sect). There’s something about a high wall and solid metal gate across the driveway that gives it that drug-dealer style.

Then there’s the dump. Right in the middle of town.

Then there’s the cheese shop. It seems they make great cheese here. But they were closed. So Alex and I got the hell out of there.

We were later told that the houses are kept unfinished so that the owners don’t have to pay taxes on them. Fine. Be a tax cheat (and a welfare cheat – most of them are on welfare) but for crying out loud, straighten things up!

Once on the highway zooming back to the Salt Lake Suburb, coffee in hand, Alex’s cell phone comes on. She has two job offers. Marci and I were robbed. Yep, on Thursday afternoon someone came up the fire escape, smashed our living room window with a hammer, and stole Marci’s computer, which was sitting on the coffee table. Turns out the guy used our super’s hammer – so that means he had actually been in our building. I call Marci on the cell phone and we talk security gates. She assures me that the glass has already been replaced.

Back to SLS. We made great time. Alex made us dinner. Then we went out to a private club where I failed to impress Alex’s friends as I practically fell asleep at the table. Oh, and there was so much cigarette smoke! Cough, cough. What can I say? I’m used to pristine NYC.

Next morning Alex and I head off for the airport. It’s a quick flight (I sleep most of the way) back to NYC. I’m home in the late afternoon. The glass in the window is indeed fixed.

Trip to Utah to visit Alex - May 22-29, 2004

2006-11-12T17:58:00.000-08:00

Visiting Pat in Israel. December 2002.

2006-11-12T17:55:00.000-08:00

My Visit to the Holy Land
It’s Many Kinds of Toilets
And Complete Lack of Service I Encountered There

INTRODUCTION
As my sister Pat continues in the foreign service, I continue going places I never considered going to. Having hit Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and Hong Kong from Pat’s last tour, people are beginning to think I’m one of those Caucasians who want to be Asian and annoy real Asian people by practicing Buddhism, taking up the Dalai Lama and buying woks. Now, Pat has gone off to Tel-Aviv, Israel, and upon hearing that I was planning a trip to a war-zone for Christmas, people assume that I’m either really religious, or nuts. I assured everyone that I wasn’t going to midnight mass in Bethlehem (especially since it’s off limits to my sister as a govt. employee) and promised to stay off public buses (also easy since Pat as a govt. employee isn’t allowed to take public transportation).

WHAT YOU WON’T FIND IN ISRAEL
Good Desserts
Good Shopping Malls
Public Trash Cans
Crafts

Wednesday and Thursday, December 18th-19th, 2002
I took a late night flight on Continental to Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv on December 18th, and arrived around 4PM on December 19th. My in-flight movie choice was truly terrible. Including a selection of Dana Carvey’s MASTER OF DISGUISE, Vin Diesel’s XXX, some other horrible movie I’ve blocked from my mind, and the third Austin Powers which I’d already seen, I concentrated on my book, FAST FOOD NATION and fell asleep. The food was awful, but the seat next to me was empty and it was our pilot’s last flight before mandatory retirement at age 60. His family was on the plane and some friends, and the crew was giving testimonials over the address system, and then the pilot came on and made a little speech. Then, as we were disembarking, the pilot was shaking all the passenger’s hands. It was very friendly – that would soon end.
There is a joke (which is printed in the LONELY PLANET guide to Israel), which goes something like this. A Russian, an American and an Israeli see a sign at the grocery store saying, “We’re sorry, we have no groceries due to the shortage.” The Russian says, “What are groceries?” The American says, “What’s a shortage?” And the Israeli says, “What’s sorry?”
Customs was relatively easy (though I switched lines since there were still 6 people in my line, and no waiting at every other line) and my luggage was waiting for me as I came out. My sister was also waiting and took me to her illegally parked car (there are no real parking regulations in Israel as they forgot to build any parking lots, anywhere) and went back to the Opera Tower on the beach of Tel Aviv, 2 blocks from the American Embassy.
My sister’s rent is paid by the American Tax Payers, and you’ll be glad to know the American People’s money is being well spent. Her apartment is about three times the size of my New York two-bedroom. She has three bedrooms, three bathrooms (one she uses for storage), a balcony and a laundry room. Her bedroom is her panic room – you should see the locks. The toilets in my sister’s apartment have circular pushdown buttons that are easy to comprehend.
The first day I was pretty dead (I had flown with a slight cold). We went to the mall in Pat’s building for dinner. The mall features a sculpture of a naked woman lying on her side, and a man balancing himself on her breast with his lips, his arms and feet in the air. The same artist did two statues of naked accordion players on their heads outside the mall. Pat tells me that all of Israel is covered in odd sculpture and horrible shopping (unless you want to dress like Brittany Spears).
Then we went back to her apartment to watch TV.
Israeli TV is where terrible, failed American shows go to die. I bet you didn’t know that Billy Ray Cyrus of Achey-Breaky Heart fame stared in a show called DOC, where he played a folksy Montana doctor working in cynical New York. Well, not only does this show exist, but also I’ve seen it. I also saw Bob Saggett’s failed follow up to FULL HOUSE, and the cancelled TWO GUYS AND A GIRL. All the news is in Hebrew, but luckily we had the BBC to find out what’s going on in Israel. Also available was The Star World (which is also British) which has bought 3 concert specials, Marc Antony, Celine Dion, The Divas Las Vegas Concert and shows them in constant rotation. There seemed to be one Arabic channel showing one Egyptian soap opera - the plot consists of one guy is dying and a bunch of guys wearing fezzes stand around his bed. My sister gets 60 channels. If you have any old DVDs you don’t want, send them to her.

Friday, December 20th, 2002
I sleep the sleep of the dead and awake refreshed and ready to hit Tel Aviv. The sky is gray, the Mediterranean is stormy, and there’s a statue of a penguin standing on its head visible from the apartment. Pat has to buy some baked goods for the Embassy Stairwell party so we stop off in a bakery and I am stunned to discover that people in Israel really do speak Hebrew, and a lot of them do not speak English. You’ve got to remember that 60 years ago, Hebrew was a dead language. It was the province of scholars and about as relevant to everyday life as Latin or Ancient Sumerian. In roughly 60 years 6,000,000 people have come to use Hebrew as their first language. Arabic and English are the other two official languages of Israel, and Russian is the unofficial fourth.
Of course, everybody looks like they would speak English. And to the typical Israeli, I look like I would speak Hebrew, possibly Russian, and maybe having a smattering in Arabic. This is an advantage with beggars – I don’t have to ignore them because I honestly don’t understand them. It’s not an advantage when the driver in the car next to you is asking you for directions. I learn to say, “Shalom, English only” pretty quick.
We take a walk up Allenby Street. It’s cool, and drizzly and Pat asks me if I would like her to point out bombing sights, or would I prefer not to see them. I shrug and says she can point them out, and so she does. A coffee shop, recently re-opened. Didn’t I want a coffee? I opt for Starbucks.
Then it’s off to the Embassy for the Christmas Stairwell party. The embassy is about four or five stories, with two basement levels, and the stairwell is very wide, and the tables with the food have been set up on the landings. One embassy official has dressed up as Santa, and Pat has dressed as an angel with a sash that says, “Noel.” I happily chat with a gentleman about being the angel’s attendant (those wings can be deadly) and later realize I was getting chummy with the ambassador. Since this is a big embassy a lot of people ask me what department I’m in or if I’m Pat’s daughter (we are 19 years apart). The ambassador announces the winners of the holiday door-decorating contest, the locusts devour the food, and the party is over.
Since we didn’t get any food at the party Pat and I were still hungry. I cannot remember what we did for food. But we broke out the jigsaw puzzles, turned on the bad TV, and spent what for the Quinns is considered an exciting night.

Saturday, December 21, 2002
Next morning we’re off to Herzliyya for brunch. Most of the embassy folks with families, or many pets, live in individual houses in Herzliyya. As you drive into Herzliyya, a big one dimensional cut-out of Herzl (the guy who got everybody speaking Hebrew) sits atop something (I think it’s a water tower) gazing down upon the traffic. A few yards later sits one of the original small boats that was used to bring Jewish refugees to Israel in the 1940’s. Pat’s joke is, “That’s Herzl and the boat he came in on.”
As we pass the house in search of parking Pat waves to two guys who I assume are embassy folks here for the brunch. Nope! They’re Israeli security provided by the embassy at all embassy-related social events. For example, a few weeks before a bunch of Pat’s co-workers went bowling. They had a security guard.
We find some parking and head off to the brunch.
Brunch is at the home of ____________. Once again, your American tax dollars are being well spent. The house is lovely. Brand new, three stories and much bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. Honestly, Pat has to get some dependents or big dogs in order to qualify for something like this. The Christmas tree features ornaments from every posting the ____’s have held. I was particularly fond of the ornaments depicting a Saudi Arabian man and woman. She in her burka, he in with his worry beads.
Next, it’s off to Caesarea. Built by Herod the Great and named for his patron (that would be Caesar), this ancient port is pretty impressive as far as ruined classical ports go. The parking lot would take a couple hundred cars (and there are probably a lot of ruins under it), but due to the weather (cloudy with intermittent rain) and the drop in tourism there are only a few cars. The great attraction of Caesarea is not the theatre, the combination of classical and crusader architecture, or the plaque that mentions Pontius Pilot (the only physical evidence found that he was in Israel). No, it’s the pot handles. We’re talking billions and billions of shattered pots. Every time the archeologists take away a five foot high section of earth, thousands more of pottery shards are exposed. But it’s intact pot handles everyone’s after.
Yep, they let you take them. They also let you take any coins you find. I found two pot handles and a young woman who was there found two coins. Little bronze coins – the kind you can pick up for two or three dollars in any souvenir shop.
I was told at the brunch that a while back they were bulldozing in the parking lot and turned up a gold coin. Then they (the archeologists, not the tourists) found 70 or 80 more. Those, the country kept.
Also, Caesarea is where the Crusaders found the Holy Grail. Apparently it was a green glass bowl and it now resides in some church in Italy.

Shopping Hell:
On our drive to and from Herzliyya we encounter the most popular shopping mall in all of Israel. Yep, it’s the Office Depot/Ace Hardware plus a non-kosher MacDonalds and a few smaller stores. They have a parking lot for probably 400 cars. Unfortunately there are 2000 cars parked there. The ingenuity of parking – on shoulders, on sidewalks, in the fields of the Kibbutz that leased the land to the center – speaks volumes on the determination of Israelis. Though the parking lot is always overflowing the big shopping day is Saturday. Yep, even though stores have to pay a fine if they’re open on the Sabbath, a lot of them just write the check and open their doors.
This place drives Pat up the wall. Now yes, it is the only mall in Israel (that we know of) open on Saturday, still she cannot imagine that anyone would want to go to Office Depot that badly. And, it’s not like there are only a few cars there on Tuesday. I mean, on Thursday you might actually get to park your car in the lot (as opposed to the drainage ditch) – but do you really need carpet tacks that badly? On the other hand, Pat did search for weeks, in vain, for clear tape in a little plastic dispenser that she could use to wrap Christmas presents. And, you probably can’t find printer paper in the local market place.
As Pat says, going to one shop for the meat, and another shop for the cheese, and another shop for bread, and another shop for vegetables is charming once, maybe twice. Then, it’s just annoying.

And now back to the travelog:
After an afternoon of ripping off the history of a culture, we head back to Herzliyya for dinner at Al and Barb Santos’s. Pat had asked me if, it was no trouble, to bring a copy of the 100 Anniversary Harley book, published by the Bullfinch imprint of my company for Al. Securing a copy from the Bullfinch Publicity director, then having it thoroughly checked out for gunpowder and other explosives at Newark Airport, the book arrived safely in Israel. Al was so happy he invited Pat and I to dinner. Never one to pass up a free meal, we agreed. Al assured us that we were in for a treat. Honestly, we would have shown up if he was buying pizza.
Now, most guys are pretty proud that they can make an omlette or cook a chicken in the microwave. Al and Barb have a bit more to be proud of.
Al and Barb are into Italian cuisine. Really, really into it. They cooked and fed us all night. We were joined at dinner by the Santos’ lovely daughter Amanda and her friend Tom, who has grown up in Israel, and answered all of Pat’s “How do you pronounce that in Hebrew?” questions.
And, I discovered a new kind of toilet. Knowing it was great dinner conversation, I had to ask, “Why are there two little squares that you can push to flush your toilet?” Answer, if you need to flush a lot, you push one button, if you only need to flush a little, you push the other button. I was very impressed.
Al is second-in charge of RSO (Regional Security Office) so he’s in charge of the security for the embassy, and the foreign nationals that are hired to guard the embassy (Marines are inside, the folks at the gate are always citizens of the country).
Then, I was told the would-be-suicide-bomber-right-near-the-embassy story. It goes like this. Two streets run along the Mediterranean in Tel-Aviv. One runs north, the other runs south, and between them are all the fancy hotels, apartment buildings (including Pat’s) and The American Embassy. Of course, all the hotels and apartment buildings have bars and restaurants on their ground floors overlooking the beach. These places are always crowded with locals and tourists. So, at a restaurant called Tayelet literally two doors down from the back entrance to the American Embassy there was a failed bombing. The bomber was hesitating about going into the restaurant, and the security guard (a Russian émigré) got suspicious and pulled the guys hands out of his pockets (because the detonator would be in the bomber’s hands). The bomber panicked and started running toward the embassy. The security guard ran after him screaming in Russian. The embassy security guards (foreign nationals) tackled the guy, pulling his arms behind him so hard that they broke the bomber’s arms (once again the idea is to get the detonator out of the bomber’s hands). Sure enough, the bomber was loaded down with explosives.
The Russian security guard went back to the restaurant where a patron gave him a $5000 check and thanked him for saving his life. All three of the men were invited to a reception at the embassy, and the two embassy employees received medals from the US Govt. Then, they were all invited to meet Ariel Sharon, who shook their hands and give them – get this – pen and pencil sets.
Yep, stop a suicide bomber and you too can receive a pen and pencil set from the grateful people of Israel.
The most fascinating bit of information I picked up was that the bomber was “on something.” “You mean he was on drugs?” I squeaked? Yep, it seems that’s pretty common. If you think about it, it makes sense. Helps you deal with your nerves and your impending death.
Finally, around midnight, we stumbled out and drove home.

A few comments on single- family houses:
You see the houses peaking up over the high walls, and the way the roofs go you think they’re piled on top on one another and very small. Well, they’re actually pretty big – at least in the fancy-schmancy suburb of Herzliyya. Parking is provided for the household, but if you throw a party expect your guests to park on the sidewalks. The yards tend to be small, and not being a big lover of mowing, raking or any of that other stuff, that’s fine with me. The houses are built with big windows to let in the soft winter light, and big metal shades to shut the unrelenting sun of summer out. What struck me is the sense of height and light you get inside the houses, even though the neighbors are less than 15 feet away.
Of course, this was embassy housing (again, your tax dollars are going to good use), so these are higher end. What’s funny is when you go to embassy people’s homes – whether an apartment or a house – all the furniture is the same. Maybe the couches and chairs have different upholstery, but it’s the same couch and chair that you’ll find at Marine House.

Saturday, December 22, 2002
Today we’re heading to Jesus’ home town, Nazareth. First, we decide to swing by Herzliyya once again because we just can’t get enough of it. No, actually we’re heading off to Tal’s Bagels. After finding some parking right where the pavement starts to turn to mud, and across from the impoundment yard for ticketed cars – we hike back to Tal’s and head on in.
But first I have to go around the idiot guy who’s decided to sit in the doorway. Whoops! He’s not just some idiot guy, he’s the security guard. This is the first time I’ve gone into a public store and encountered the purse search and the wave of the metal detector. It’s a bit unnerving.
More unnerving is the all Hebrew menu. Oh well, I’m from New York, I can order in a bagel store. I ask for a sesame seed bagel with cream cheese and lox, with lettuce onion and tomato, and a latte. Pat says make it two (except for the coffee). We turn around and run into Barb Santos buying bagels and trying to decide if she wants to go to Jerusalem today. Pat and I invite her to go with us tomorrow. Barb is undecided, but promises to give us a call and Pat and I sit down to our bagels. Then, I decide to use the bathroom.
Well, this toilet has me completely confused, as it has no handle or push button(s). I stand regarding it for a moment or two before figuring that maybe the push button is hidden behind the large silver panel in the wall. Nope, the large silver panel can be depressed, and viola! A flush!
So, we’re off on our first real day trip. I’m reading directions and holding the map. Pat’s driving. Pat’s car is a piece of crap. Not as big a piece of crap as she led me to believe, but pretty bad. For example, I have to hold the handle of my door on when trying to exit the car, as the handle tends to fall off. Pat has to pull her seat belt on as she’s driving, because if the car isn’t moving, the seat belt won’t move either. When I lean forward to open the glove compartment, I have to move very slowly or my seatbelt kicks in and holds me fast as if the car were hurtling trunk over hood over a cliff.
On the way to Nazareth, we stop off at Daliat El Karmel to check out the Druze shopping. The Druze are a religious minority in Israel – heck they’re a religious minority everywhere. The Druze are an offshoot of Islam, but they don’t believe that Mohammed was the last prophet. They believe in reincarnation so they do not put names on their headstones. What exactly they believe aside from that is a big secret. Certain people in the community (both men and women) have reached a certain level and get to go to secret Thursday night meetings (so they have to tape Friends). The Druze don’t have a religious homeland, so they tend to give their political allegiance to the government of whatever country they happen to be living in. They also make some really nice glassware.
Now, when I say village, please do not think I’m talking about some picturesque little turn of century, Lawrence-of-Arabia-esque enclave with quaint locals. It’s more like the local suburb circa 1973. I get some money at the ATM and we go glass shopping.
Druze glass is colorful, pretty, and unbreakable. Seriously, the guy I end up buying from, whacks a wine glass against the wall a couple of times to prove it. The Druze also make very nice tablecloths (washable - but don’t put them in the dryer), bedspreads, and woven table linens.
We’re there less than an hour since every shop has all the same stuff and honestly, I’m not into shopping. Here’s why. On my first trips to Asia I bought so much stuff, and most of it was in the charity bag within the year. Also, I have a two bedroom apartment stuffed with crap back in New York, and my roommate, under threat from me, is removing some of her crap from our living room, so I’m just not shopping all that much.
Off to Nazareth. Nazareth is very well marked and it is here that I start to figure out the color coding of signage in Israel. Brown means tourist attraction. Blue means local road information. Red means local government. So, we follow the little brown signs around Nazareth. And around Nazareth. And around again. Finally, we figure out that we are circling all the tourist sights. So, we park near some tour buses and get out. We start up the hill that looks familiar to Pat before finally pulling out the map to find the Church of the Annunciation. Then, we look around to figure out where we are and there, right in front of us, is the Church of the Annunciation. It’s not open.
We hang out for five minutes waiting for the Franciscan to come and open the gate then head in.
For those of you not up on the Great Moments in Christianity, the Church of the Annunciation is purportedly built on the spot where the Angel Gabriel came down to tell Mary that she would be the mother of Jesus. The church was originally built by the crusaders, and they had a habit of “finding” things (such as the Holy Grail, which, as you remember, was found in Caesarea and taken back to a church in Italy) so you have to take the “this is the very spot where Mary lived” with a grain of salt – or as a matter of faith (which works if you think about it). After, we cross the courtyard where they’re loading in lights (they must be planning on broadcasting Christmas Eve Mass) and head up to the Church of St. Joseph, which marks where Joseph (husband of Mary) lived (or maybe where his carpenter shop was). Well, Mary and Joseph really must have been the BC equivalent of high-school sweethearts because they didn’t live 100 yards away from each other. St. Joseph’s Church is very, very small. Indeed, many of the churches we will see are very, very small. These great Biblical cities are more like tiny villages. Seas strike me more as lakes. At the same time, what takes us two hours by car must have been a hellish journey of two days by donkey.
Pat pays a priest (who is drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette) to use the bathroom and we head back down to the car.
There are no tourists (so why the busses I wonder?) and the Arab market is shut down. I don’t want a stuffed camel or a postcard, so we are done with Nazareth in about an hour.
It’s not very late, and Pat suggests we head off to the Sea of Galilee. Driving through Galilee is lovely. It’s green and lush with verdant valleys and blue hills (which they call mountains). The Sea of Galilee is now a resort, so there are piers with restaurants and touristy shops. We head to the town of Tiberius, which was built after the crucifixion, so there are no crusader churches here. There are some tombs of a couple of very important rabbis, but Pat and I decide to give them a skip.
Again, the weather is on the chilly side and the sky is gray, so the tour boats are moored and the bars are empty or closed. Pat points out that Israelis don’t go out to eat until 9pm, but still, the place is not happening. There is a lot of trash on the shore, but the Sea of Galilee itself is very pretty. Of course, to me, it looks like a lake.
So, we try to walk around the town a bit, but there’s not a lot to see except a drug deal going on down by some ruins. We were going to eat in Tiberius and have St. Peter’s Fish (only found in the Sea of Galilee), but we’re not hungry. So, back in the car for a two hour drive back to Tel Aviv.
On the way we pas Armageddon! The Israelis call it Meddigo and it’s a huge archeology sight. Once we hit Tel Aviv, we hit a traffic jam and I’m in Hell because I have to go to the bathroom. I am contemplating going behind the bushes when we finally start to move. Pat and I park in her building then buzz through the security door, jump into the elevator, run down the hall, get through her security heavy door with major locks, and I run for toilet.
Ten minutes latter we go back down to unload the car. We order non-kosher pizza from the only place in Tel Aviv that will put pepperoni on your slice, do a jig saw puzzle, watch bad TV and go to bed.
A few comments on Tel-Aviv architecture and pollution
Tel Aviv has some really decrepit buildings. When Jewish refugees first started coming in great waves to Israel in the 30’s and 40’s, they settled in the Arab town of Jaffa (or Yaffo), which was an ancient port full of ancient building and winding streets and charm. The Jews, not feeling particularly welcome, moved north and founded Tel Aviv. It was originally supposed to be a “garden city by the sea” but when the course of the main drag, Allenby St. was moved to accommodate somebody’s coffee shop, things started to go awry. At first, building was concentrated on the shore. Then, the richer people started moving inland and the coast started to get run down. The older buildings down by the sea began to deteriorate. Now they’re crumbling – you can see through them. Then a lot of big apartment buildings were done very cheaply because housing was needed right away. There’s something about poured concrete – it’s ugly. And there’s trash. The beaches are raked every morning, but the streets are just full of litter.
Big hotels have been built on the shore, and my sister’s luxury apartment building sits right on the beach. From her window you can see buildings that can only be described as tenements, hotels and buildings that were probably grand in the 1960s, and the fancy-schmancy hotels.. As we walk the two blocks from her apartment to the embassy, we pass crummy little stores and buildings that would be rat traps, except all the stray cats in Tel Aviv ensure that there are no rats to be found.
It boggles my mind a bit. I mean, I’m a New Yorker and this is prime real estate. Why, these little three and four store buildings could be fixed up and be charming. My God, these buildings are on the water!!!
Of course, when you’re spending 60% of the country’s budget on defense, you really can’t afford to hire street sweepers. And in a country where bombs go off, you aren’t going to find a lot of public trash cans. And of course, tourism is way, way, way down so the money is not coming in like it once was.

Monday, December 23, 2002
Today we are off to Jerusalem! Barb has decided not to go, so Pat is relying on me to read the map. We make it into Jerusalem, find the parking near the Old City, and nearly get trapped in the parking garage. Afraid of bombs, every exit has been closed. We finally have to walk down the exit ramp (that clearly says not to walk here) in order to get out.
The Old City: where the Jews and Muslims fight each other and the Christians fight amongst themselves. The contention for the various Christian sects concerns the Church of the Holy Sepulcher (the site of Christ’s crucifixion, entombment, and resurrection). It seems that some Armenian Christian priest and a Greek Orthodox priest came to blows over shade in the courtyard last November. For eight hundred years, the same Arabian family has kept the keys to the Holy Sepulcher. Why? Because all the various Christian groups were always trying to lock each other out. There is one room in the Holy Sepelchure, which is overseen by two priests who are literally, the last of their religion, and everybody is looking forward to the fight that’s going to ensue over that room once they’re both dead.
Of course, whether the Armenians, Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and the other Christians currently fighting over the Holy Sepelchure get the irony (Jesus did say to love thy neighbor as thyself) is a matter of debate. But their periodic fights always make for an amusing diversion in the local papers.
Sure enough, when we do get to the Holy Sepelchure, Pat points out the current key holder, and the tree that casts the hotly contested shade.
Built by the crusaders, the Church of the Holy Sepelchure is very dark, but very moving. Of course, it would be more moving if would be tour guides weren’t constantly interrupting your contemplation offering to give you a tour. And they will not take no for an answer. You have to be extremely rude (ie: not Christian) to get rid of them.
Before we went to the Church of the Holy Sepelchure we had lunch at an Armenian Restaurant (where the women get a door on the bathroom, but the men only get a beaded curtain so you can get a good look at their asses). So now we are well fortified for shopping. We came through the Arab streets on the way to the Church full of stores that cater to the tourists, and now we head back through them again. We go in two or three stores but once again, I’m not feeling the urge to shop. Pat is impressed by my utter lack of avarice, and we head off for the Wailing Wall and The Dome On The Rock.
We immediately get lost in the real Arab market streets. This is where the locals shop. You can’t get a stuffed camel or a bottle of water from the Jordan River here. You can get masking tape, pots and pans, shoes, and gummy like candy in the shape of fried eggs. It is insane. We dead end and head in another direction. We’re terrified to pull out a map or a guide book as that usually attracts the locusts of shop keepers and would be tour guides. However, we finally give in, and a teenage boy asks us where we want to go. He gives us directions and sends us off down the street without trying to sell us anything (he works in a clothing store). Now we know we’re not in the tourist area.
A note on the shops. They are literally caves. Or nooks in walls so old that the rocks and mortar have compressed into a solid mass. There were probably shops in them back in the days of You Know Who! Now, of course, they have electricity and dry wall, but when you see one being remodeled, you can see the rock walls.
Somehow, we end up at the Church of the Flagellation. This is one of the 14 churches that mark the 14 Stations of the Cross leading from Jesus’ being condemned to death and ending with his being taken down from the cross. As you may have guessed from the name, the Church of the Flagellation is where Christ was whipped and crowned with the crown of thorns. I’m actually contemplating this little church and pondering the Stations of the Cross, the affect of Christ’s life and teachings on the development of the world’s culture, and the nature of faith. But not for long!
Nope, some STUPID-WOULD-BE-TOUR-GUIDE comes after us. This guy is a leach and will not let go, following us out of the church and into the “street”. There is a van coming up the street, which makes it impossible to walk (unless you can flatten yourself to three inches wide against the wall. Well, I would rather die than deal with this guy one minute longer, and the driver of the van must see the look of desperation on our faces, because he actually lets Pat and me squeeze by.
By the way, this is the “street” where the multitude sentenced Christ to die. Pat points out the balcony where it is believed Pontius Pilot washed his hands of Christ’s death. Now, the Bible, and every Hollywood Movie or TV miniseries gives you the impression that Pilot stood on an imposing balcony overlooking a vast courtyard full of thousands of extras. Trust me, if this is the actual balcony, and street, you couldn’t fit a hundred people between the walls. It’s that whole perspective issue again.
Meanwhile, back to our desperate attempt to avoid the tour guide. I see a side street, which according to our map, should lead us to the Wailing Wall and The Dome On The Rock. Pat and I trot down the ancient paving stones toward two Israeli cops waiting where the street dead ends. Well, this must be the place! I trot forward with my purse open and ready for inspection. I am then asked two questions which I have never been asked before.
“Are you carrying any weapons or ammunition?”
“Not today!” I joke back with a big smile.
The soldier smiles back, but he was not joking. Pat later explains to me that people carry weapons in Israel.
The next question was, “Are you Christian?”
“Ah, yeah, Catholic.”
“Sorry, you can’t come in here.”

Just then, a guy walks by and says, “Muslim,” barely stopping to wave at the soldiers. It seems that the tiny alley to our left is the entrance to the Dome On The Rock and only Muslims go there.
So, we cross the Dome off our list of must-sees, get some directions from the soldiers, and head back to the main “street.” Guess who’s waiting for us? Yep, the leach-like would be tour guide. He comes running up to us, and Pat gives him a look that could rival Angela Bassett in Learning to Exhale. The guy actually stops, and turns around heading back up the hill. We head down the hill and take the next left.
This street is a little wider and there are a mix of Arab and Jewish shops. They are a bit nicer with fewer stuffed camels and higher quality merchandise. There are also public bathrooms, but I don’t stop to check them out. We finally make it to the next check point, where we show our purses, swear we don’t have weapons or ammunition, admit to being Christian, and walk through the metal detectors, and head off to the Wailing Wall.
Here we contemplate the center of Jewish faith in Israel, and have to ask the aggressive Jewish vendor to please get out of our picture. He thinks it’s really funny that he’s bugging us, we think he’s an ass.
Now we start walking through the Jewish quarter. The Muslims destroyed a lot of the Jewish quarter during one of the wars (I think it was the War of Independence in 1948). At the time, it was seen as a horrible desecration of an ancient city. In retrospect, it worked out really well for the Jews, as they were able to build new housing with modern plumbing and electricity. (Think of how the Great Chicago Fire turned Chicago into a clean slate upon which its distinctive architecture was built.) Pat’s very excited to be here on a Monday. She’s only ever come to Jerusalem on a Saturday and guess whose stores are closed on Saturday? Well, it turns out a lot of them are closed anyway. Did I mention tourism is down?
Well, we’re done. We pick up our car, and using the YMCA tower as our guide, park near the King David Hotel, where we go for a drink. This is my idea as I just read a very depressing article in the New Yorker about Jerusalem and it mentioned how over 2/3rds of the staff have been let go. And, we’ve been walking around for a couple of hours, so let’s sit and have a drink before we get back in the car and return to Tel Aviv.
The King David is very impressive and it has a lovely view of Jerusalem. Pat and I sit in the bar (with no view) on a really comfy couch and have a glass of wine and eat some peanuts. Being Quinns, we have a lot to talk about. Because of the exchange rate, about $10.00 takes care of the bill and provides a 30% tip. I could have asked for change, but geeze-Louise, what’s the point?
Laura’s tips for visiting the Old City in Jerusalem:
*Learn the following phrases in Arabic and Hebrew:
“I have leprosy.”
“I live here.”
“A pox on you and your family.”

*Find an Arabic friend to pose as your guide – this will keep the other guides away as they won’t poach on another’s territory. The next day, have your Jewish friend take you to the Western Wall. This will require you to get along with everyone – this would probably make you Bono.
*Realize that nothing will dissuade these guys. Nothing. Don’t let them draw you into conversation. Don’t say hi back, don’t tell them where you’re from, and don’t tell them what your religious affiliation is (unless the person is an Israeli soldier or policeman – who you will recognize by their rifle). Either pretend that you only speak Navaho (which will entail that you whisper to your traveling companion or hiding your mouth behind your Lonely Planet guide written in Navaho), or resign yourself to being as rude as possible.
Let’s talk about Israeli soldiers:
Imagine what you were like at 17. Imagine your fashion sense at the time. Now imagine yourself at 17 with a rifle. In the Israeli army a 21 year-old can be a commander. A private is usually dealing with acne, hanging out at the mall, and still living at home with Mom and Dad – carrying a rifle. These kids/soldiers are required to carry their rifles with them at all times. It’s really disconcerting. I keep wanting to say, “Does your mother know you’re carrying that?” or “Put that down, you might hurt yourself, and for God’s sake get some pants that fit, I don’t need to see your underwear. Trust me, nobody believes you hang in the hood.”
Israeli police:
All good-looking. I swear. There’s not an average guy in the lot. Or, if there is, they stick them on desk duty.

Tuesday, December 24th 2002
Christmas Eve and we have errands to run. Got to pick up the mail at the embassy, wrap the Marines’ gift certificates from Amazon.com, hit the Russian Market for food to make Christmas Dinner, and attend a bonfire on the beach.
At the embassy we hear the good news that yesterday, the U.S. Government has lifted its travel warning on Jordan. That means Pat can go to Petra with me! Yippee! (for more on this, see the Petra trip, Saturday, December 28th, 2002). Everyone at the embassy who has visiting family is discussing options on how to get to Petra – fly up for the day tour, drive to Eilat and take the bus tour, or drive yourself into Jordan. Pat reserves a spot on my trip, and we’re headed back to the apartment to wrap the marine’s gifts.
The Russian Market sounds very quaint. It’s not. It’s Costco with no parking. True to form, everybody there speaks Russian and all the signs are in Russian. Individual products are kosher, but you can buy cheese and beef in the same store. And, you can get pork. Trying to buy ricotta at the cheese counter is pretty difficult, but a nice bi-lingual lady helped us out. Then, we find those crispy fried onions you need for green bean casserole in a big barrel next to the pickles and olives. We also secure the last two boxes of lasagna noodles in all of Israel.
Since it’s rainy and cold the bonfire is called off. Pat and I head off to Jaffa for Christmas Eve at St. Peter’s (a couple hundred Philippine families and us), and dinner at Aladdin (pronounced Al-a-din).
Jaffa is an ancient port and below the pedestrian mall you can check out some archeological digs, and from the window of the restaurant we can see more ruins. Also from our window we can see Andromeda’s rock. Andromeda’s mother bragged about her beauty, which ticked off Poseidon. He sent a sea monster to wreak havoc on Jaffa until they finally decided to chain Andromeda to a rock and let the sea monster eat her. Well, just as she was about to become snack food, Perseus flew by on Pegasus and used the head of Medusa to turn the sea monster to stone. Those Greeks.
Jaffa is still mostly Arabic, though they are moving/being forced out. Artists are either moving in to save Jaffa, or are being used by the government as a tourist-friendly way of destroying the real Jaffa. Take your pick. The port area still drips with the authenticity and elegance of history, however the sheen of gentrification taints it.
I get my St. Peter’s fish, and it tastes like trout. Between the miserable weather and the drop in tourism, there are not a lot of people in the place. However, when I banged my plate on the table (trying to push it aside) everyone it that restaurant jumped.
When I ask to use the bathroom I have to go outside, down a flight of steps toward the ruins/beach where a pretty clean toity sits. It makes sense since in the good weather the restaurant probably serves food on the terrace. But, it’s not fun walking down wet stone steps on a rainy dark night.
Pat and I head home, take in some bad TV, and go to bed with visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads.
Wednesday, December 25, 2002
Fa-la-la-la-la. It’s Christmas morning and the sky is blue with big fluffy clouds! We actually open the windows and let the fresh air in. Now, sitting under Pat’s artificial tree, we begin opening our presents!
I had no idea what to get Pat and she had no idea what to get me. I mean, we’re both older women who can buy what we need and want, and it’s hard to come up with things I want that I trust other people to buy for me – and Pat’s the same way.
So, I decided to get Pat – “The History of the Middle East as told through Popular Culture.” First, she opens her DVD of Otto Preminger’s 1960’s epic, EXODUS starring Paul Newman and Eva Marie Saint. Much to my surprise, Pat is thrilled. It seems there’s a scene where Eva Marie Saint has to shoot adrenalin into Paul Newman’s naked chest in order to save him – and this made a big impression on my then teen-age sister. Also, Pat and her friend Bonnie learned the Theme From Exodus duet for piano and played it at their high school talent show.
Next, she gets LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, which I was afraid she already had as she had been quoting it a few days before. Nope, she doesn’t have it, and she fondly remembers that scene where Omar Shariff comes into the tent and he gets his first close-up.
Upon reflection, I realize I was giving my sister back her high school years. It would be like someone giving me a DVD of FOOT LOOSE.
Next, the books, THE HOPE and THE GLORY by Herman Wouk. Once again, my sister is quite pleased. The Mad Libs desk calendar is not Middle East themed, but she is gracious about it, and I figure it will give her a year of amusement as she asks other embassy personnel for adjectives and adverbs on a daily basis.
Oh, and she gets other stuff from other people.
My gifts from Pat are also Middle East-themed but that’s because shopping is so bad I get the pottery, tiles, and glassware from the charming local markets. That’s fine, I like it all.
We prep for our dinner guests and head off to the Arab market in Jaffa. The first place tries to sell me some junky trinkets for 400 sheckels. That would be about $80 American. I wont’ budge from, “no way in hell” and he won’t budge. Finally, he offers me the little oil lamp for 100 sheckels. Pat informs him that three weeks ago he quoted the same item at 25 sheckels. Boy, is his pride hurt. I literally have to squeeze by him to escape the stall, as he won’t in his depression over my evil refusal to pay his fair price, move from the one narrow exit. A few stalls down another guy starts the bargaining on the same oil lamp at 100. You know, I just don’t want it that much.
Pat flirts with some furniture buying, and we think we’re getting a deal, until a bi-lingual Israeli offers to translate and her eyebrows nearly shoot off her head when she hears what Pat’s considering paying.
Finally, I do buy a plate I don’t need, a tile I don’t need, and this odd thing on feet, with several compartments and a peacock on it. We’re told that it’s a Bedouin eye shadow case. Other people at the embassy were told it’s a Bedouin inkpot. Maybe someday Pat will go to the Bedouin museum and discover what it really is.
Back to the apartment, Pat and I put together a casual Christmas dinner for ten (lasagna is the main dish) and the guests arrive. We all have a nice time (at least I think we do – I know I did) and Christmas is over pretty quick.
Pat and I clean up a bit, and then we sit down to watch EXODUS. First, Pat has to open the DVD, which is something she has never done before. Yes, she has about a thousand DVDs bought in Asia – pirated copies that come in little envelopes. She has never had to wrestle with the packaging. Nor has she ever had to deal with a menu (the pirated DVDs just start playing when you stick them in). Still, we manage to get EXODUS going.
It’s a big, silly, badly acted 1960’s epic. Sal Minneo as a Holocaust survivor – you get the idea. However, I did learn little history. Also, we got to watch the following scene set in the King David hotel. Eva Marie Saint has just told Israeli freedom fighter, Paul Newman, that her husband died last year.
Paul: Is there a man in your life.
Eva: No.
Paul Why not?
Me: God! What horrible dialogue.
Pat: Hah, you can tell he’s an Israeli.

I demand an explanation. It seems my almost 56 year-old sister cannot go on the beach in Tel Aviv without a parade of men hitting on her. It’s not a compliment. These guys work their way down the beach meeting rejection after rejection in the hopes that any woman not in a wheel chair (and some don’t mind a wheel chair) will be willing to spend some time with them. Bring a book, put a walk-man on your head, scuba dive – it won’t work. They will pursue you.
We get halfway through Exodus before we finally give in and go to bed.

Thursday, December 26th, 2002
Today is our Exodus day! Pat and I are going on a three-day road trip to the Dead Sea and the Red Sea. We are renting a car for the trip since her car is not the greatest piece of machinery and we will be traveling through the Negev dessert.
Much to Pat’s surprise, the car rental place insists that she provide her passport, despite the fact that she has an MFA card. An MFA card can only be issued to embassy employees, and has all her passport information on it. It’s also pretty near impossible to forge (if you could forge an MFA card, you could forge a diplomatic passport). She is also royally ticked that the travel agent neglected to inform her that she should have brought her passport. AND she is furious because the policy of the embassy is that State Department employees should not carry their passports at all time – they should use their MFA cards. AND she is even angrier because everyone at the rental car place knows she’s an embassy employee, and they know what an MFA card is.
As we walk back to the apartment Pat tells me how the grocery store has sometimes, for no reason she can discern, demanded to see her passport (which, of course, she didn’t have). What possible national security issue could be threatened by buying some Slimfast and a loaf of bread?
Anyway, we go back to the apartment, get the passport, walk back to the car rental place and get the car. It smells of that horrible pink hand soap you get in public bathrooms. I really hate that scent. Blech.
So we load up the card with suitcases (crammed with coats if it’s cold, spring clothes if it’s mild, and shorts and bathing suits in the wild hope that the sun will come blazing down and make this a beach trip), water (we’re going through the desert!), tapes, Lonely Planet and some maps.
So we drive and drive and drive. We listen to a mixed tape, the best of the Eagles, and the best of Fleetwood Mac. The dessert is very rocky with lots of plants – not very Lawrence of Arabia. We stop at a rest stop and I encounter the most God-awful bathrooms in all of Israel. I don’t even remember how the toilets flush because the filth of the place has crowded any amusing plumbing details out of my mind. We grab a #1 meal at the local burger chain (menu in Hebrew – thank goodness for the pictures), split it, and continue on.
We’re in small town, kibbutz, and a few Bedouin camps area.
By the way, traveling through this dessert is not that hard. No, you’re not in danger of hitting a traffic jam, but you’re also not in danger of not seeing a car for hours. If you were stupid/adventurous enough to get off the highway in your four-wheel drive, there’s a good chance some Bedouins would come by with their camels and haul you out. That said, I’m sure there are some really determined people who get themselves killed in the desert every year, just like there are people who decide to hike down into the Grand Canyon with no food/water/experience, or hike up a snow-capped mountain in flip-flops.
Speaking of camels – yep! There’s one! And there’s one! And look, there’s another! I’m guessing the kids in windbreakers riding them or leading them around are Bedouins.
The Bedouins are really screwed these days. They used to wander all over Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Israel, Syria, and Lebanon, herding their goats, stopping in at the local oasis and riding their camels. Well, now there are fences along the boarders (and in some cases land mines), tourists are staying at the oasis, and fences surround every kibbutz and farm. This really cramps the wandering around herding goats life-style. Some years back an American Jew started collecting Bedouin stuff, and today Israel boasts a first-rate Bedouin Museum (which we skipped). A good thing, since the culture is really dying. If you see an impoverished looking encampment with camels, you know you’re seeing Bedouins.
Suddenly, large rocky hills (mountains they call ‘em) are rising up and we are going down, down, down. Our ears are popping. Occasionally you see a spray painted sign on the rocks – 100 ft below sea level – 200 ft below sea level – 300 ft below sea level. Then suddenly, there’s the Dead Sea!
Ok, I’m going to be a party poop here. The Dead Sea is now a resort town, and like most resort towns, it’s made up of hotels, cheesy shops, and restaurants. There is not one private home. Nobody, nobody lives there. The beaches are man made.
We’re staying at the Hyatt. It must have 600 rooms, but it only has 200 parking spaces. After Pat and I park on a dirt mound (and we were lucky to get the spot) we hike down to the hotel. In addition to the folks staying at the hotel, there’s a Bats Mitsvah in the ball room and a Gastroentologists convention in the lower-level hall. As we are waiting for our elevator we can see the booth for some company that proudly advertises it’s products – laxatives and suppositories.
Pat and I go out for a stroll on the beach. But, you can’t do that at the Dead Sea. Each hotel has a bit of beach they have cobbled together, and gosh darn it, if you’re not staying at their hotel you’re not using their beach. If you want to walk along the water, you better be prepared to scale walls, leap over piles of soon to be repainted patio furniture, or shimmy up and down rock walls.
Pat and I find the little shop section where there’s nothing in the stores you might want. I do get some Ahava products (they are on sale!), and we head back to the hotel because, quite frankly, there’s not much else to do.
Now sure, granted, it’s too chilly to swim, so we don’t get the great experience of going into the slimy, so salty it will cause you pain and suffering if so much a drop of it goes in your mouth or eyes, so flat that the only reason they have life guards is to administer first-aide if you happen to get the water in your mouth or eyes Dead Sea. And, because it’s too chilly, we won’t go in the Dead Sea and sit up on the water and read a newspaper (the standard tourist photo op) or smear ourselves in the black mud. Maybe if we did this stuff we would have been more impressed.
We certainly weren’t impressed by the Hyatt’s Dinner Buffet. They don’t do buffets well in Israel, but the Hyatt reached new heights. The food was bad (though there was a lot of it), the service stank, I had the worst wine I’ve ever had, and there was a couple walking around in character. What their characters were supposed to be, we don’t know. We think they were supposed to be a couple from the Old South (a la Gone With the Wind) except that the man’s suit was made from a brocade more suited to the Sun King and carried an English Umbrella. Still, we could have laughed it all off and filled up on bread, but when we checked out the next day we discovered the buffet had cost nearly $60.00 US. Our hotel room cost $90.
The Hyatt’s beds were very nice. There was only one channel in English on the TV, so Pat and I watched LOVE STORY, because that’s what was on. Unlike EXODUS or LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, Pat does not have any fond memories of Ryan O’Neal’s bare chest or first close-up. But she is fascinated. She remembers that LOVE STORY was a big hit – and it’s so bad.
The bathroom is mirrored on three sides, so if you don’t like to look at yourself on the toilet, you are out of luck.
The water is so icky at the Dead Sea that there are signs warning you not to drink it. You can get good water on every floor at the ice machine.

Friday, December 27th, 2002
Up at 4:30 AM! We’re off to climb Masada and see the sun rise! We pick up our breakfast boxes from the concierge, climb the dirt mound to our car, and take off. Masada is only about 15 minutes down the road and we are assured we can’t miss it.
Now, before I go into my highly amusing account of our adventures on Masada, let me say this. MASADA ROCKS! It’s really cool. It’s a must-see! Herod the Great may have been a tyrant justifiably hated by his own people, but boy could he build a fortress.
Everybody says you have to climb Masada at dawn and see the sunrise.
Laura says:
(1) Bring a flashlight (nobody ever tells you to bring a flashlight – water yes – but not a flashlight).
(2) Sunrise may be at 6 AM, but there are these things called the Jordanian Mountains in the way. The sun rose about 6:30 when we were there.
(3) The guide books say it takes 45 minutes to go up the Snake Path, and 30 minutes to come down. IF YOU’RE A MARATHON RUNNER! It took Pat and I over an hour to get up (with many rest breaks), and 45 minutes to get down (step on the wrong rock and you might find a new way down the mountain).
(4) Go to Masada the day before when there’s light. This will help find the two signs pointing to the Snake Path (one cleverly hidden behind a bush), or find the way to the Roman Road, which is MUCH EASIER TO CLIMB THAN THE SNAKE PATH!
(5) There are people who say you have to take the Snake Path, they are wrong.

In the pitch dark, it takes Pat and I a while to find the second sign (cleverly hiding in a bush) that points to the Snake Path, which, in the dark, is not easily recognizable as a path. Dear God, this path is steep. But we are the only ones on it. However, since we are only crawling, people (young, Marathon runners) actually start to pass us at the top. Still, we imagine Masada will be pretty empty.

Nope! Masada is alive with tour groups! They all came up the Roman Road. Damn, if only we had come the day before and scouted the place out in the light!

At first, Masada ain’t that impressive as we come up in a big, empty, plain. But, we decide to head over to those ruins where a bunch of guys are singing in Hebrew, and the many, many ruins of Masada open up. We get so into wandering around the storerooms that we have to force ourselves to find a perch, sit down, and watch that damn sun rise.

We’re hot and sweaty from our climb, but the rocks are cold. So, we’re sitting there freezing our butts off, listening to the British rabbi lecture his tour group, when it suddenly occurs to me that it’s my 37th birthday, and Pat’s 56th. We wish each other a happy birthday, and the sun comes up. It’s not a great sunrise (it’s a bit cloudy). But we climbed that big rock, and we saw that sun rise, and damn it, it was great!

Masada has excellent toilets with seats that are surprisingly warm considering that everything else on top of this mountain is cold. They are also very clean. Outside the toilets is a little garden, which I’m guessing is fertilized by the septic tank. Herod built two palaces on Masada, but we take a pass on the opportunity of climbing down 200 steps and then climbing back up them to check out the beautiful tile floors of either the North or the South Palace (I can’t remember which). Instead, we check out the baths, the pigeon coop, the mitzvah built by the Zealots, the offices, the walls, the room converted into a synagogue by the Zealots (there were some people in there praying, so Pat and I just looked in), the tile floors here and there, the remains of the murals, the little ovens built by the Zealots, the Roman Road, the Roman camps at the base of the hill, and the wall the Romans built to keep anyone from escaping. Masada is worth killing yourself to see. If you don’t want to kill yourself, the tram starts running around 8:30 AM.

Pat and I are ready to go by 8:00 AM so we figure we can wait until the tram starts a half our later, or we can traipse down the Snake Path in a half hour. As you know from the beginning of this entry, it takes us 45 to carefully pick our way down. Teenagers frolic past us, tossing Frisbees and doing triple axels (ok the Frisbees are an exaggeration, but you get the idea). Going down hurts my calves. We pass a woman carrying all the heavy coats for her family (I wonder if she wisely decided to abandon them) and a teenage girl who is hyperventilating (her friends are splashing bottled water on her).

We’re back at the hotel by 9:00 and secure a real parking space (a paved space actually created for the purpose of parking a car – which is still far from the hotel) and we go back to bed. Check out time is 11:00.

Refreshed by an insufficient nap, we drag ourselves out of the hotel at 11:00, put everything in the car, and walk down to the beach. I’m a little chilly in my Capri pants but sure enough there are people laying on the beach, soaking up the weak, weak sun. I wade in the Dead Sea, and Pat takes a picture. Then, we’re off and I’m driving.

A note on Israeli Drivers
Road rage doesn’t exist in Israel. You want to pass, sure go ahead, I’ll pull over as far as I can so that you can pass. If I’m a big heavy truck, I’ll stay in the right lane. You need to get into this lane, sure come on in! You need to drive over the meridian and go in the other direction, more power to you. You need to stop in the middle of the one lane road, so that you can parallel park on the sidewalk? No problem. We understand.

And now we’re in Eilat!
So, we’re off to the Red Sea, which unlike the Dead Sea, has a name for the town on its shores. Eilat. Of course, Eilat really is a town, people actually live there. Still there are a lot of hotels, an aquarium, some glass bottom boats, and the Red Sea. Which isn’t Red. It’s blue, blue, blue. A really, really pretty blue. Off that-a-way is Taba, Egypt where you go to scuba and snorkel, and off over there is Aqaba, Jordan.

We go in Herod’s (a resort hotel) for a light snack and something to drink. We sit on the terrace overlooking the pool and Red Sea. It’s lovely. There are a bunch of guys playing cards, kids frolicking in the pool (got to do another handstand under water, and another, and another), and a little boy with a toy shark who explains to us in Hebrew (we think) that he has hurt his thumb. Apparently, high pitched sounds of sympathy, in any language, satisfies him and he goes off with his mom.

Warning: If you are one of those people who hate children, don’t go to any resort in Israel. These are family resorts, and there are kids everywhere.

A week after I got back to the US they found Legionnaire’s Disease at Herod’s. I would still recommend it.

Then we head out to walk along the beach, which you can actually do here. We are slowly, but surely, starting to poop out. I start to get a sinus headache, we crawl into the Dan (the Dan hotels are very high-end and all over Israel). We get a light dinner and toast each other once we remember it’s our birthday.

We’re home by 7PM. We watch the BBC, play Rumi-cube®, and we’re asleep by 9.

Saturday, December 28th, 2002
You may remember that back in November an American State Department official was shot in his driveway. This was a big shock to the State Department since Jordan is very safe for Americans, but the decision was made to evacuate all non-essential personal. Right before I left for Israel it was announced that the two assassins had been arrested. I was hoping this meant that the State Department would allow non-essential personal back in Jordan. Why? Because I’m going to Petra – where Indiana Jones found the Holy Grail in the third movie – (I guess he hadn’t heard that the Crusaders found it in Caesaria and took it back to Italy) and it would be nice if Pat could come with me.
Well, as you know, on December 23rd the email went out that State Department employees could travel to Jordan. Pat was thrilled, because Petra is something you want to do more than once, and now she won’t have to sit around Eilat entertaining herself while I cross the boarder. Now, my normal approach to this trip was, if the US Government won’t let my sister do it, I’m not going to do it. But Petra was the exception. I wasn’t going to travel to a war zone and not do the amazing wonderful Petra.
Here’s how the bus trip to Petra works.
1. The bus picks you up at the hotel.
2. The Israeli tour guide (a South African) introduces himself.
3. The bus takes you to the boarder, where we all get off the bus.
4. We all go through Israeli customs.
5. We all receive pieces of orange paper.
6. We all walk to a gate in the border and hand our orange paper to an Israeli border guard.
7. We all walk through no-man’s land (with fenced off land mine areas) to the Jordanian border.
8. We go through customs again (all the women get searched by the one female Jordanian border guard).
9. We sit on the curb in Jordan waiting for our passports to be given back to us.
10. Pat and I play geography.
11. Pat and I are given some American money that fell out of one of the passports (we are the only Americans on the trip). The money is actually French. We give it to some Dutch people.
12. We get our passports back and get on the Jordanian bus.
13. Our “tourist police” escort gets on with us.
14. We meet our Jordanian tour guide.
And we’re off. First we drive through Aqaba (“We took Aqaba! We did! They did! The Wogs did!” – Peter O’Toole as T.E. Lawrence in Lawrence of Arabia). The thing that strikes me about Jordan is how clean it is. Aqaba is a clean city, and it’s a real city with houses, shops, ports, and immigrant Egyptian day laborers waiting on corners hoping for a job. Despite the fact that it’s a cool day, Jordanians will not stand out in the sun. They will only stand or sit under trees. The trees are casting no shade whatsoever, but damn it, the Jordanians are clinging to the trees. I guess you can’t overcome all those years in the desert with a few parks and a good water filtration system.
Everybody on the bus gets a two-liter bottle of ice-cold water. Again, it’s not 65 degrees, but damn it, we’re going into the desert and we’re going to be prepared.
The rocky hills outside Aqaba and into the desert are spectacular. They are red, black, green, brown, swirled together like a marble cake. Really, really cool. The little villages (and these are villages, not strip malls) seem dusty and dry, but behind the walls are tiny forests of trees and plants. We see some Bedouin camps (poverty, pollution and camels) and big stretches of rocky desert that Abraham and every other patriarch of the Old Testament traipsed through.
Our Jordanian tour guide is really hitting it off with the Dutch tourists. He’s telling them Dutch jokes and the Dutch are wiping their eyes they’re laughing so hard. From these jokes I gather the Dutch have a reputation for being cheap. The big punch line is “cookie-lookie” which I think is the Arabian pigeon English imitation of the Dutch saying, “No we’re not buying, just taking a quick look.”
Pat and I are the only Americans on the bus. There are some English, a few South Africans (I know this because at one point the tour guides tried to return the South African passport to me under the assumption that it was an American passport). Lots of Dutch, of course, and some Spanish speakers (I’m not sure if they’re from Spain).
This tour company used to run two busses a day from Eilat to Petra. Now they run two a week. This is a combination of the renewed troubles in Israel, the impending war against Iraq (which nobody wants, I mean beggars will say to me, “Oh you American? We don’t want war.”), and a horrible terrorist act that happened a couple of years ago in Petra. Basically, a crazy Jordanian soldier opened fire on an Israeli school field trip killing several little girls.
The Late King Hussein gets a lot of credit for how he handled that situation – publicly crossing the boarder into Israel and publicly going to the parents of the dead girls and begging their forgiveness. It is generally agreed that Hussein saved the day. And while he was never a friend of Israel, Hussein was too practical to squander his country’s time and energy on war. Instead, he built his country’s economy, and worked to improve the Jordanians’ quality of life. This is a Middle Eastern country with no oil. And it’s rich. And it’s because of him.
Then Hussein died and everyone sort of held their breath. Hussein’s brother had been his heir for years, but at the last minute, Hussein named his son Abdullah as his heir. Abdullah seems to be doing well and folks are breathing a bit easier. Everywhere you go there are pictures of Hussein. He was king forever, and he was greatly loved. Usually, Abdullah appears in the same picture with his father, or in a separate picture with his wife. The queen is a Palestinian raised and educated in London. Very modern.
After an hour we halt at a rest stop. The gift shop has Christmas Ornaments that say, Jordan 2001. Did I mention that tourism is down? The rest stop is freezing, but it’s nothing compared to the bathrooms. Coldest bathrooms I have ever been in. Absolutely freezing. And the toilet doesn’t flush. I run outside to get warm.
While it’s only 65 degrees, the sun on my back is 80 degrees. If I want my face to be warm, I have to turn around. So, I stand in the parking lot (Jordanians have lots of parking) and turn rotate slowly. Then it’s back on the bus for the last leg of our journey to Petra (it takes about 2 ½ to 3 hours from Aqaba to Petra).
Finally, we’re in Petra. There’s the Indian Jones Gift Shop! There’s the Indian Jones Café! The bathroom in the visitors’ center is filled with squeeling, giggling Jordanian teenage girls in blue jeans and headscarves. It’s not very clean, and the line is long (and loud). Pat assures me and a German tourist that if we can wait 45 minutes, the bathroom in the actual city of Petra is much nicer.
We are told by our tour guides to avoid the horses going down. It’s fine to take the horses, buggies, camels back up – but you should really make the journey down on foot. So this dashes my INDIANA JONES fantasy (Indy rode a white horse into Petra), but oh well.
Petra was build by the nomads, the Nebadeans who made a living off the spice trail. The Nebadeans decided there was more money in providing services to the traders rather than trading, so they sought for the perfect place to build a city along the trade route.
The spot they found was covered by a river. So, sometime around 60 AD, they diverted the river and carved their city into the walls of the canyon that was left behind. So, as we descend into Petra, we are literally walking through what used to be a riverbed. Then, slowly, through a crack that gradually grows larger and larger you begin to glimpse a city.
Dear God, it’s incredible. After you get to Petra, and you gawk at the incorrectly named “Treasury” take a left and take in the rest of the city. I’d really love to try and describe this amazing place, but words will not do it justice. A city – a huge city – carved into the rock. Amazing. Incredible. Disney will be knocking it off soon.
I will say this, even if you don’t have to go to the bathroom, go. The women’s bathroom’s ceiling is the amazing, swirly, rock from which Petra is carved. Pat tried to take a picture from her stall. We hope it turns out. I honestly don’t know if the men’s room is half as good.
There are cafes actually in the archeological site. If you came to stay at one of the luxury hotels (or cheaper ones) in Petra, and decided to spend the whole day here, you could have a nice, leisurely lunch. There are vendors selling everything, including rocks. Sure, they are very pretty, multi-colored, swirly rocks from which Petra is carved but they are rocks.
Where the city of Petra ends is desert. Now, the reason the Nebadeans diverted the river is they wanted a secure place to build their city. We are told over and over that Petra could not be defeated. So what about this big open back door? Well, hundreds of years ago it was a thick forest. The Roman’s cut down most of it, then the English took what was left to build the Orient Express. I’m not sure how that answers the question – but our tour guide seemed to think it did.
Now it’s desert, and it seems that every once in awhile some idiot decides they’re not going to pay the entry fee to Petra. They’ll just come around to the back door. If they’re lucky, a Bedouin on a camel, or an Arab with four-wheel drive saves them. If they’re not lucky, they die.
But you know, I can see why people think they could do it. There are all these little bushes. There are trees. It appears to be rocky. You can see the Marriot Hotel right there. You should be fine, right? Well, my sister went driving in the Wadi Desert with someone who had four-wheel-we-don’t-need-any-stinking-Bedouins-drive. Suffice to say, she was ready to try spelling the word “HELP” out in rocks before they finally found the road again.
We walk back up the canyon road to the visitor’s center. As the path gets wider it’s divided into two sections: walkers and riders. That keeps the walkers from being trampled by the camels, horses, donkeys and buggies. Honestly, we should have taken a buggy back (I’m getting a little winded), but oh well. Since there aren’t a lot of tourists, the horse guys are racing their horses up and down the path. It’s really cool. Granted, they are wearing windbreakers, not robes, but I can’t help but think of Anthony Quinn in LAWRENCE OF ARABIA.
We have a late, late lunch (about 4:00) at the Marriot overlooking Petra. It’s a buffet, and it’s not very good, but it will do. The hotel is beautiful, and empty. We use the bathrooms and take off.
Our Jordanian tour guide, along with the Dutch tourists, sings a Dutch lullaby. Our Israeli tour guide, who is from South Africa, sings us a Masai lullaby. They turn off the lights and we all fall asleep.
When I wake up I am amazed by the brightness of the stars in the sky. They seem so close and there are so many of them and ….. HOLY COW! That’s Perseus, flying in on Pegasus (the winged horse) to save Andromeda from the Sea Monster. I can see them all. Heck, if you’re lucky in the US you can make out Andromeda and maybe a star or two of Perseus. But here, they are so clear and bright. And Pegasus – it really does look like a flying horse. It’s so cool.
There’s very little traffic, but there is a steady flow of trucks. Jordan has a port, and the trucks seem to travel mostly at night. It would make sense.
Going back through Jordanian customs, no man’s land, Israeli customs and back onto our original bus is much quicker. As we are passing through the Israeli gate the guard is explaining to three guys that the Jordanian’s close the boarder in five minutes, and it will take them at least a half hour to go through customs. No, the Jordanian’s won’t hold the gate for them. It’s best if they try tomorrow morning, and leave yourself at least two hours to get through customs.
The Israeli Customs’ House is dedicated to the memory of Rabin. There are a lot of pictures – Rabin smoking a cigarette in the pool, Rabin lighting another world leader’s cigarette, Rabin holding a child and dropping ash on its head. You’d never see that in America.
Gosh, it’s nice to be back at our hotel. Where’s the bedspread? Oh, there it is, wadded up into a ball on top of the wardrobe. Strange how our bedspread no longer fits the bed, it seems to be way to small. I think the maid had a bad day.
Sunday, December 29th, 2002
Pat and I sleep in. The hotel we are staying at is a basic motel. It has a kitchenette, but no continental breakfast, so Pat and I pack up the car, drive over to resort area, and go in search of a breakfast place. All we can find is the Eilat equivalent of Starbucks, and I would really like some bacon and eggs (though I doubt I’m going to find bacon). So, we decide to hit one of the hotels for breakfast. Well, we snacked at Herods, and had dinner at The Dan, so we head to the Hilton for breakfast.
It takes the stunned hostesses a few minutes to figure out what to do with walk-ins. At first, I’m a bit surprised that the staff is surprised, but I quickly figure it out. When you come to Eilat, or the Dead Sea, you stay at your hotel. You take your meals there, you swim in that pool, you use their beach, you go to their spa. Families staying at The Dan don’t head over to Herod’s for lunch.
Finally, they come up with a price and they seat us. The service is mind-boggling bad. It makes the service at the Hyatt buffet at the Dead Sea look good. Pat asks for tea – not the head of John the Baptists – just tea. Our dirty silverware is cleared away, but clean silverware is never brought. Taking are cue from the other diners, we quickly learn to steal from other tables, or just get up, walk over to the wait-stations, and take what we need (napkins, sugar, milk, tea, silverware, etc.). The toaster doesn’t work. There is one guy making omelets, and he’s not quick. All the staff are young teenagers and they are having a great time ignoring the diners and setting up dates with each other.
We hop back in the rental car for the trip through the Negev desert back to Tel Aviv. I check the LONELY PLANET to see if there is anything to break up the five-hour drive. Nope. There is a town that due to Russian Jewish immigration has grown three-fold, and once a week it has a Bedouin market – and the market ain’t that great. There are a lot of wadis to hike in – but Pat and I don’t hike. Wadis look like dry riverbeds. That’s because once or twice a year they are raging riverbeds. When it rains, and it doesn’t have to rain hard, the water all goes one place and you had better get out of the way.
Suddenly we see camels. Now, I’ve seen camels, but this camel is crossing the highway to join his three or four camel friends. There are no Bedouins in sight, and the camels have no harnesses. Are there wild camels? Pat doesn’t know. LONELY PLANET doesn’t help. Pat and I decide that the camels probably do belong to someone, and they know to wander back to the tent at feeding time.
Not really much to say about this trip except the dessert is big, full of wadis, and sprinkled with war memorials. As we get out of the dessert and closer to the coast, the war memorials are replaced with bad Israeli public art. Traffic becomes very, very dense as we get closer to Tel Aviv, but still, everybody let’s you in and the trucks pull over. We get lost in Jaffa (Yaffo), but eventually make it back to Pat’s apartment in Tel Aviv.
Monday, December 30, 2002.
Today is my last day in Israel. We return the rental car, then stop by the Embassy to pick up Pat’s mail and drop off a box of my souvenirs to mail home. We’re going to walk into the artsy-fartsy section of Tel Aviv, ______. Here, you can see how beautiful Tel Aviv could be. The artists have moved into the area and restored the houses. The streets are clean. There are parks, a big center to preserve Israeli dance, and art/industrial workshops for everything from glass blowing to welding (all the better to make hideous Israeli public sculpture). There are chi-chi shops, coffee houses, cute restaurants, and for some reason a strangely large number of boutique children’s stores. There is also a store selling all the Moroccan stuff I bought on Christmas day in the Arab market. The prices are as good or better and the merchandise is clean. Go there for you pottery first.
Pat had clipped an article on a restaurant, and we head there for an excellent, leisurely lunch. The service is excellent (the only time I’ll say that in Israel) and the food is superb. It strikes me as Italian. Certainly the bathrooms, which are tiled on the ceiling (and very clean), strike me as Italian. We have some very good kosher wine (I’m not kidding). Then we’re off to buy expensive handbags at an arty handbag store. I spend too much for my leather and hemp bag, but I figure no one else in NY will have one like it.

Laura Visits Sister Pat in Malaysia - July 2000

2006-11-12T17:49:00.000-08:00

LAURA’S TRIP TO SOUTH EAST ASIA
or
MY TOUR OF THE AIRPORTS OF THE WORLD
JFK (USA)
Vancouver (Canada)
Hong Kong (Hong Kong)
Kuala Lumpur (West Coast of Peninsular Malaysia)
Kauala Terengganu (East Coast of Peninsular Malaysia)
Kuantan (East Coast of Peninsular Malaysia)
Singapore (Singapore)
or
HOW MANY NEW ILLNESSES CAN ONE PERSON EXPERIENCE WITHOUT MISSING ONE DAY OF AGGRESSIVE SIGHT-SEEING
A common cold (sore throat, runny nose)
An infected ear
Mosquito bites
Sun burn
A rash

PART ONE

JULY 1, 2000
I hop the bus to JFK Airport Number One, and the driver has such a bad accent that I’m terrified he said Cathay Pacific a few terminals back and I missed it. He keeps asking me (at least I think he does) which airline I’m flying, and by the third or sixth time he asks, the whole bus is chorusing “Cathay Pacific!” Anyway, I get there.

My suitcase contains six boxes of hair dye, two cans of powdered Slim Fast, and one can
of bread crumbs for my sister, Pat. Also some modest clothes (Muslim country) and two bathing suits for me. My carry-on knapsack is heavier than the suitcase. Reason one, I am terrified of being bored on my 25 hour journey. Reason two, I am flying with a cold. Oh well, the Nyquil will help me sleep.

From New York to Vancouver Canada I chat with a fellow passenger, finish my first book, and deplane at some ungodly time in the early morning to hang around for an hour before heading off to Hong Kong. Airport Number Two: the Vancouver Airport was ok. We were in a large glass enclosure being subjected to Jay Leno and Saturday Night Live reruns, but they had free Danishes and juice. The plane was delayed, so I take my first nap. I would have never known we were delayed two hours if they hadn’t kept apologizing for it. Two hours or twenty minutes, a nap is a nap.

Back on the plane someone’s sitting in my seat. Since I am on the divider between first and economy class (lots of legroom) this is a problem. Turns out that the folks who were moved into my row are not the problem. A guy traveling with his family had decided to take the window seat, and would have sat there until either I, or the couple had been moved. I was the one who decided to ask to see his ticket, at which point he got up and moved to his correct seat. What a dip.

I swallow down the Nyquil, and when I wake up we’ve crossed the International Date Line and my ears are clear and my soar throat is gone. I am jubilant. It won’t last. Soon I will be popping my ears with strange squeaks. But for now, all is well, and the Pilot points out Mt. Fuji. It’s a nifty sight.

July 3, 2000
We land in Hong Kong, Airport Number Three, quite the snazzy and empty airport with space-age luggage carts. I wander down to my gate, unable to pop my ears. It takes awhile, but they finally (with a big squeak) come clean. On to a new plane. Not as good of a seat, but the plane is not as crowded. I sleep, I read, I take Dayquil. On the descent, my ears are in pain.

I arrive in Kuala Lumpur, Airport Number 4. My ears are clogged, and not clearing. I can’t hear a thing, and have to ask the nice lady at customs wearing a headscarf (were in modesty land now) to repeat herself three times before I figure out her question has nothing to do with drugs. (“Death to Drug Traffickers” says the cheerful skull and crossbones on my immigration form.) She wants to know if I’m here on business or holiday. Holiday, I tell her, trying not to bellow.

After being cheated by the budget round-trip taxi thing, I get to the US Embassy. Pat had told me specifically to ask for the U.S. Embassy, since American refers to two continents.
So I do, and the cabby figures out I mean the American Embassy. This will be repeated throughout my vacation.

Reunion with my sister, brief tour of the U.S. Embassy, then off to her apartment, a three bedroom, two bathroom palace. I love the pool. It doesn’t have a ledge. The water sloshes over the edge into little grates/drains so you get that nice running water sound all the time your frolicking in the chlorinated aqua. (Comment by Pat: Which is why everybody has an overwhelming urge to go pee-pee in the swimming pool.)

We walk off to Hock Choon’s, a Chinese grocery complex that caters to the westerners living in KL. Pat delights in showing me the prawn-flavored chips, candy, pretzels, soda, you name it, it comes in a prawn flavor. The second most popular flavor is cuttlefish (squid). We eat at the Hock Choon’s cafe, and head home. I honestly can’t remember if we took a dip in the pool or not. I passed out.

July 4, 2000
Bus journey to Malacca. Or Melaka. Spelling is more of a concept than a hard and fast rule in Malaysia. This has a lot to do with the fact that there were British spellings, then
Malaysian spellings, and then there are English words that got translated into Malaysian, Hindu and three dialects of Chinese. There does not appear to be a standard. You’ll have a map of Malaysia, and Malacca/Melaka will be spelled two different ways on different spots on the map. Some other fun words I will discover while in Malaysia include farmasi (pharmacy), restaran (restaurant) and butik (boutique). (Don't forget polis for police - P.) In short, this is paradise for a bad speller.

Melaka used to be a big deal, and now it trying to rebuild itself as a beach resort. Lots of development, but the hotels seems to be empty (When is the “season” in Malaysia?
Everything seemed to be half-empty at the most.) We see a Chinese Temple (under renovation - this will be a recurring theme), the remains of a church/fort, a German jewelry store (wonder why the tour bus stopped there?), a quick stroll through a Chinese market (Pat buys gifts for some folks), lunch at a Chinese restaurant (ice costs extra), and we attempt to see the replica of the Sultan’s Palace – a sort of nice wooden lodge which is closed for no reason that we can ascertain (a recurring theme in Malaysia).

Our tour guide is great. He tells history in the following way. “So the Dutch say to the English, ‘Hey English, we have to go fight Napoleon, will you take care of Melaka for us for a couple of years?’ And the English say, ‘Yeah, sure.’”

He also tells us that a palm is not a tree. It’s a palm. We learn that Malaysia’s top 5 businesses are 1) Manufacturing 2) Palm Oil 3) Tourism 4) Petrol 5) Timber.

I nap on the way to Malacca, and nap on the return. Still, I’m doing well with the jet lag.
I think we went in the pool upon our return, perhaps watched the English channel (which shows Friends every night) and I passed out.

July 5, 2000
I sleep in. Ears are still clogged. Sometimes I experience pain. Annoyed, I go for a
swim, shower, nap, and make myself presentable to go to the Central Market in China Town upon Pat’s return from work (she is leaving early every day to play with me). Upon her arrival, I ask to see a doctor. The embassy nurse is off this week -- and considering her last cure almost killed Pat -- this is not a bad thing.

We get to the emergency room. There is no one there. I wave to a nurse (wearing her headscarf tucked up under a nurse’s cap) and she has me fill out a form. I sit down, take out my book, and get called. The doctor (Indian) says I have an ear infection in the right ear, gives me the prescriptions, and sends me across the road to the farmasi. I get my drugs and nose drops, in a half an hour. Cost: under ten dollars American.

The Central Market (we take a cab) is quite fun. Located in China Town, you can get everything from junk (clocks made from CD’s, cheap batik wraps) to really, really nice knives, scarves, rubber wood bowls, shadow puppets, blowguns (with darts), and other such stuff. I end up in a Chinese stall, buying a Chinese silk dress extra large! Talk about service (another trend of this journey), the sales assistant would have undressed me if I had let her. She certainly hooked up every button and straightened every wrinkle. When I tried to unbutton myself, the sales lady told me, “no, no, that’s her job.”

We had a fabulous Thai meal (with incredible service) where I took my first drugs, then headed back to Pat’s, where I passed out.

July 6, 2000
Pat goes to work, and I take The City Tour offered by the same group who gave us the Melaka tour. I decide to walk down Jalan Ampang (translation: Road Ampang) to the MATIC (Malaysian Tourist and Information Center) where the bus picks everyone up.

Walking to the MATIC is interesting. I am dressed modestly (longish shorts, short sleeve, non-tight shirt) and am picking my way along the sidewalks, trying to look like I belong. When crossing the street I just follow the women in headscarves (though not all women in Malaysia wear headscarves). Traffic had been greatly improved in the last ten years, but it’s still quite interesting. Twice, motorcycles pulled up behind me in the pedestrian crossing in order to make a completely, mind-boggling illegal move. On my walk, I passed what can only be described as an Asian style Tara. You look at it and think it’s terribly tacky, the sort of thing that gets built in the suburbs, and looks ridiculously ostentatious. Then you discover that it’s a cottage, built by the Sultan of Brunei for his nephew when said nephew was attending college in KL. Suddenly, it looks very restrained and tasteful. I pass a Chinese temple -- though really this is the land of mosques. Mosques, mosques, mosques. Everywhere. There is a big circular tower with a cinched waist that I can only describe as a Hadj Club. Like a Christmas Club, but instead of saving up all year for the holidays, you save up for several years in order to pay for your pilgrimage to Mecca.

Our tour guide is not as good as Mr. Malacca/Melaka. In fact, when our New Zealander asks him what The Emergency was, our guide says it was The Emergency. I feel very up on Malaysian history when I give the Kiwi the facts.

The National Monument and Lake Gardens – a salute to the end of The Emergency, Created by the same artist who did Iwo Jima, I can honestly say that Iwo Jima is much better. The park is stunning.

The Emergency had its roots in World War II. The Japanese were particularly nasty to the Chinese living in Malay, and it’s agreed upon that the Chinese population suffered the hardest under the wartime regime. Many Chinese, backed by the Communists and Mainland China, started a sort of guerilla warfare against the Japanese. The Allies supported them with weapons. When the war ended the Communists refused to put down their weapons because (a) the wanted an independent Malay and/or (b) they wanted a Communist Malay. It took the British until 1960 to put down the Communists in Malay. They called it The Emergency, because if they had called it a war, China might have become involved.

The National Museum (Muzium Negara) – for one ringet ($0.25) it’s a great deal. The dioramas on Malaysian culture are the best. Western-style mannequins with really bad wigs, dressed in the appropriate Hindu, Malay, and Chinese outfits, display scenes from every day life. These include the many hats of the 9 Sultans of Malaysia (Made from twisting colorful cloth in a particular way for each sultan - P.). Wedding ceremonies. Hanging around the house. And my favorite, the traditional circumcision ceremony for 12 year old boys. This used to be a big deal, and while the little plaques never made it clear if this was still done, it sparked quite a discussion among the members of my tour. They had photos of the last big Royal circumcision ceremony (1933) with floats, crowds, bands, marching regiments, and souvenirs. In the diorama, we saw the special bedding, the guy in charge of the operation, and the guy who stood by, ready to cut the head of the operator off, if he messed up. No mention of anesthesia was made.

What about these Sultans? There are 9 sultans, and every five years one of them gets to be King. The King is a figure head and much beloved, especially by the rural population. The current King is 79 and his wife is 28. You seem them on billboards all over Malaysia. She dresses modestly with her crown sitting atop her headscarf.

The National Mosque (Masjid Negara) (There's a National Mosque, then a State Mosque in each state, then of course, your local neighborhood mosques. Some of them are absolutely gorgeous. You don't ever want to park near a mosque on a Friday afternoon. Everybody comes to prayers and they'll park three deep; basically just stopping their car in the middle of the street, and you'll be pinned in for hours -P.)
The Railway Station -- built by the British and perfectly over the top and ridiculous. (I think it's neat - P.) Luckily, the roof can hold up to two tons of snow. Malaysia is 90-95 degrees year round.

On my walk back from MATIC I’m much more confident. I step jauntily out of the way of motorcycles cutting through pedestrian crosswalks. Let ‘em stare at my exposed arms and scarf-less head.

Back at Pat’s it’s time for a dip in the pool and a nice nap.

Pat gets home and we take a cab to the Indian Market. Which Indian Market the cabby wants to know. Pat starts throwing out landmarks and finally says, The Coliseum Hotel. The cab driver knows exactly where we want to go.

Down here on Jalan TAR, Kuala Lumpur is decisively less shiny. There are tons of stores selling everything from saris to beautifully tailored western style clothes. We dine at the Coliseum Hotel, which was opened in 1921 and hasn’t changed anything since. Not even the tablecloths. They are stained (but clean), and the leather chairs were once elegant, I’m sure. Walking through the swinging doors I really thought I was in Dodge. If cowboys had walked by the dusty windows and moseyed on up to the bar, I would not have been surprised. Once seated in the restaurant, I began to see how it once must have been a Colonial establishment (after all, Dodge did not have ceiling fans). The waiters, who I believe are all still the original staff from 1921, come to the table and wait, just wait, while you look at the menu. Don’t try to distract them with a drink order. It won’t work. Pat’s food could be eaten with the silverware on the table, but for some reason my crab needed a special knife and fork (which looked just like the pair already on the table). The waiter put the knife into my right hand, and the fork into my left. None of this making me pick it up myself. (This place is a hoot. If you come to visit me, you're going
to the Coliseum. The pressure you feel as the 106-year-old waiter hovers over you, pencil at the ready, is incredible. It wouldn't be so bad, but the menu is about eight to ten pages long. I've seen customers break out in a sweat due to stress. I always quickly order #89 just to get rid of him. They also hover while you're reviewing the bill. It's like trying to dine with vultures - P.)

July 7
Airport Number Five Kauala Terengganu
Today we fly to Kaula Terengganu. My ears pop a bit, but there is no pain. This is a very small airport, where you walk across the tarmac and they only have one entry gate. The luggage pick up does not have a conveyor belt. They just pas the suitcases through a door. We take off for Rantau Abang, the best beach at which to catch the great Leatherback Turtles laying their eggs.

(At the airport, I asked for a cab to Rantau Abang The Turtle Information Center. We were charged only 20 ringgets ($5.00) which seemed extremely reasonable for an hour long trip. Turns out they misunderstood and we were taken to the Tourist Information Center in bustling downtown Terengganu. (I jest.) Finally got the idea across to the cab driver and after much chuckling, he gassed up the cab and asked for 40 more ringgets. Still a deal. $15 American to drive two people for about an hour - P.)

On the way there, we see a big billboard of the states Sultan and his wife welcoming us. Mrs. Sultan is not wearing a veil, and is showing quite a bit of neck.

We see no turtles. But our hut has air-con (the “ditioning” part is left off in Malaysia), a shower (but no shower stall – which makes the toilet and sink very wet). The beach is beautiful. I get my first bug bites and my sunburn. There is a great breeze, the food is good, and the other guests are friendly. (We stay at a place called Awang's. It's clean and
charming in it's own way - if you consider a bed with no sheets charming. We have a TV and get to watch Sesame Street. - P.)

July 8
Cherating – it takes about an hour and a half by taxi to get to Bay View Resort at Cherating. The brochure is much better than the reality. But when I look at everything else is Cherating, we are staying at the best place. (It's definitely a step up from Awangs in Rantau Abang. It's bigger and there are sheets on the beds. However, it still has that
special Malaysian "charm." - P.)

On the journey to Cherating we drive through non-tourism Malaysia, and it’s fascinating to see how oil is changing the country. We get to see the traditional Malaysian dwellings – wood buildings that seem to start rotting and sagging the moment they are constructed, and the little houses that are being built in neat little company towns that are quickly taking their place. The neat little houses start to peel in the humidity almost immediately. Upkeep is not a big priority in Malaysia. I don’t know if it’s practicality (the heat, the humidity) or a cultural thing. (Saw a lot of oil fields and refineries. Sort of brought back memories of working for BP on the North Slope of Alaska: except for the 98 degree heat, white sand beaches and palm trees, that is. Really made me wish I was back up north again (and if you believe that, I've got a bridge I'd like to show you) - P.)

We see beautiful grassy parks bordering the ocean, with picnic tables, hawker (food) stands, and litter, litter, litter. I keep thinking, one person, with a rake, could clean that up in one day.

The beach we stay on at Cherating is beautiful. The hotels are little huts. Some are just huts. Some have fans. Some have bathrooms. Some have air-con. There are lots of places to eat and lots of back-packers. Also, tons of goats. We eat dinner on the beach. Around a bluff of rocks (with an impressive private home) is Club Med Malaysia.

Another note on beaches in Malaysia. You see lots of Malaysians. Which is really nice. It’s not like the prime beaches are being kept back for the tourists. They’ll come for the day, or rent a hut. Malaysians do not waste money on bathing suits, however. They go into the water in shorts and shirts (usually long-sleeved) if they are men, and long pants and long-sleeved shirts if they are women. Little girls usually swim in their dresses.

Oh, and when I say Malaysian, that can mean Hindu, Chinese, Malays and others.

July 9
Leaving Charating we see two adult monkeys and three little monkeys. I am delighted.

Airport Number 6, Kuantan – that’s where we fly out of the next morning. A bigger airport, it’s mostly outdoors with a big covered verandah serving as the entrance, ticketing, rental car pick-up, and other such stuff. Once you go through the metal detector, you end up in the air-con.

If you ever read or saw A TOWN LIKE ALICE, Kuantan is where Joe got crucified.

That night we go to Bangsar – a market where Nina likes to buy flowers. Nina also works at the Embassy, and her husband Jeff is in the military doing a sort of international exchange for a year. A bunch of officers from the U.S., Canada, Australia, England, etc. are attending classes with Malaysian military officers. One of the required classes is a History of World War II class taught by a Malaysian university professor. Jeff flat out refused to take the test since he would have failed it. He gave us examples of the questions and the “correct” answers:

1. Why did America drop the bomb on Hiroshima?
A: After taking off from Hawaii, the pilot headed for Tokyo and got lost. So he radioed back to Hawaii and asked them what he should do. They said, “just drop it anywhere.”

2. Why did America drop a second bomb on Nagasaki?
A: The pilot got lost again.

3. Why did the English enter World War II?
A: Because they were feeling left out.
Note: This one really amazes me because Malay, a British Colony, was invaded by the Japanese. Thousands of people were imprisoned and killed.

4. How long did World War II last?
A: Two years.

As Jeff whizzed around the roads of KL (which are truly complex in their design) I commented that if we ever had to invade, he’d be able to lead the tanks. He replied, “Tanks? We could conquer this country by telephone.”

Bangzar is really a local market – not tourist oriented at all. Nina has a stall she frequents where she buys her flowers, and Pat picked some up too. Some fruit was bought, then we went off to a Mexican restaurant where we had tapas and liquor!

July 10
I sleep in and wander over to the Embassy around noon. There are photographers. No, they were not alerted to my presence. The North Koreans are there.

Pat and I go out for Chinese food with several people from the Embassy. I order a Coke, and the waiter pours the can into the glass of ice for me, then sets down the can. I take a sip and put my glass down. He leaps forward, and pours a bit more Coke into the glass. This goes on for awhile. Finally, I take a big gulp so that he can pour the last of the Coke and he’ll leave.

Pat drops me off for an afternoon at the Kraft Centre/Craft Center (pick your spelling). This is where you can buy Malaysian Krafts/Crafts, see artists at work, make your own batik, and do other such stuff. I buy some Royal Salangor pewter (sort of the Wedgewood of Malaysia). Two little monkeys to hold my business cards and a wedding gift. I pick up a red woven bag, and some hand-carved chopsticks.

A note on gift buying. My friend Carl had asked me to pick up an obscene fertility symbol for him. No luck. Malaysia is a modest, Muslim country with a religious police. The religious police are suffering from a lot of scandals (seems that such scandals are not limited to tele-evangelists). As for Singapore (where I will soon be going), they cane people for spitting gum on the sidewalk – imagine how they feel about porn.

The truly amazing Batu Caves are only 30 kilometers outside of KL. It takes Pat and me (Pat is driving because she’s been told that it’s so easy) 2 ½ hours to get there, and twenty minutes to get home. On the way there I have the following conversation with a petrol attendant.

“Hi, what’s your name?” He said, sticking his arm through Pat’s window (almost knocking me in the nose - P.), and extending his hand to me for a shake.
“Laura.” I shake his hand.
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Any babies?”
“Not yet. Thanks for the directions.”

The Batu Caves (when we finally get there) take 272 step to get to, and they are truly incredible. Filled with Hindu temples and art which are amazing on their own. But the caves are huge. They spiral up and up, with open jags in the ceiling letting in light and birds. Pigeon poop everywhere. (I think it's bat poop - P.) Monkeys everywhere, too. One hisses at us (I think we got a bit too close to the baby – but we meant no harm – we were just trying to get by). Saw several mommies with the babies hanging off them. It was cool. (The monkeys here are known to be VERY aggressive. My friend, Leo, suggested we take some food to feed the monkeys and then they'd leave us alone. Oh yeah, THAT would be a good plan. Fortunately they had enough food from the trash can so that they left us alone. As we entered a side cave, however, one started stalking us. So as Laura is blithely meandering through the cave, exclaiming about the statues and the history of hinduism, I'm walking backwards, waving my purse at the monkey following us, letting it know that I'll knock his teeth out if he doesn't back off. It did. Pat saved the day for tourism in Malaysia. - P.)

Get home and order a pizza. Watch last year’s Miss World contest. Or did we watch the Jane Seymore movie? I can’t remember.

More to come…

LAURA’S TRIP TO MALAYSIA
PART II

Still to come…
MORE AIRPORTS
Kuala Lumpur (West Coast of Peninsular Malaysia)
Singapore (Singapore)
Hong Kong (Hong Kong)
Vancouver (Canada)
JFK (USA)

AND ONE MORE ILLNESSES
A rash

Corrections to Part One:
Cherating is not spelled Charating (though I bet somewhere in Malaysia it is.)
Typos – Give me a break, I was jet-lagged
Bad spelling – Despite the fact that I was flying, I did not have a “soar” throat.

A Comment From a Linguist Friend
It's amazing how many things/places/even people are named "Melaka" in this world (which in modern Greek is quite a nasty word, equivalent to the British "bugger"), probably because m/l/k are 2 of the most common letters in the world's languages

Comments From My Sister Pat
Re: my enthusiasm for the “running water” aspect of her swimming pool:
Which is why everybody has an overwhelming urge to go pee-pee in the swimming pool.
Re: oddly spelled words: Don't forget polis for police.
Re: sultan’s hats: [are] Made from twisting colorful cloth in a particular way for each sultan.
Re: The National Mosque: There's a National Mosque, then a State Mosque in each state, then of course, your local neighborhood mosques. Some of them are absolutely gorgeous. You don't ever want to park near a mosque on a Friday afternoon. Everybody comes to prayers and they'll park three deep; basically just stopping their car in the middle of the street, and you'll be pinned in for hours.
Re: My reaction to the British Railroad Station in all it’s over-the-top British zany-ness: I think it's neat.
Re: The Coliseum Hotel: This place is a hoot. If you come to visit me, you're going to the Coliseum. The pressure you feel as the 106-year-old waiter hovers over you, pencil at the ready, is incredible. It wouldn't be so bad, but the menu is about eight to ten pages long. I've seen customers break out in a sweat due to stress. I always quickly order #89 just to get rid of him. They also hover while you're reviewing the bill. It's like trying to dine with vultures.
Re: Taxi adventure at the airport at Kaula Terengganu: At the airport, I asked for a cab to Rantau Abang The Turtle Information Center. We were charged only 20 ringgets ($5.00) which seemed extremely reasonable for an hour-long trip. Turns out they misunderstood and we were taken to the Tourist Information Center in bustling downtown Terengganu. (I jest.) Finally got the idea across to the cab driver and after much chuckling, he gassed up the cab and asked for 40 more ringgets. Still a deal. $15 American to drive two people for about an hour.
Re: Our hotel at the Turtle Beach: We stay at a place called Awang's. It's clean and charming in it's own way - if you consider a bed with no sheets charming. We have a TV and get to watch Sesame Street.
Re: Our accommodations in Cherating: It's definitely a step up from Awangs in Rantau Abang. It's bigger and there are sheets on the beds. However, it still has that
special Malaysian "charm."
Re: The oil fields of the east coast of Peninsular Malaysia: Saw a lot of oil fields and refineries. Sort of brought back memories of working for BP on the North Slope of Alaska: except for the 98 degree heat, white sand beaches and palm trees, that is. Really made me wish I was back up north again (and if you believe that, I've got a bridge I'd like to show you).
Re: Stunned by the sudden interest in my marital/fertility status expressed by the enthusiastic petrol attendant, I had no idea that while flinging his arm through Pat’s window in order to shake my hand that he was “almost knocking me in the nose.”
Re: Batu Caves’ pigeon poop: “I think it's bat poop.”
Re: Batu Caves’ monkeys. The monkeys here are known to be VERY aggressive. My friend, Leo, suggested we take some food to feed the monkeys and then they'd leave us alone. Oh yeah, THAT would be a good plan. Fortunately they had enough food from the trashcan so that they left us alone. As we entered a side cave, however, one started stalking us. So as Laura is blithely meandering through the cave, exclaiming about the statues and the history of Hinduism, I'm walking backwards, waving my purse at the monkey following us, letting it know that I'll knock his teeth out if he doesn't back off. It did. Pat saved the day for tourism in Malaysia.

Some things I forgot to mention and wish to comment on:
Hawker Stands: All over Malaysia, the Hawker stands are like a bunch of restaurants under one open air roof (no walls). You want steak, you go to the steak guy and pay him. You want curry, you go to the curry guy. You want dessert, there’s a dessert guy. Sort of like a food court. There are always sinks to wash your hands in, even at the most basic of places. There are so many hawker stands that Pat and I began wondering if Malaysians don’t cook a lot at home. It would make sense. It’s so hot, and to cook in the house would only make things worse. Also, traditionally, Malaysians lived in wooden houses (huts) and a stove would be a fire hazard.

Don’t Make Malaysians Angry: Back to Jeff’s comment that we could invade Malaysia by phone. They Malaysians certainly are laid back. They are not too concerned with being on time or rushing to get anything done. However, once Pat and a bunch of embassy folks were eating at a hawker stands when an obnoxious Dutch guy pulled up in his car, parked in front of a car-wash stand, and proceeded to order his meal and start eating. Now, there were plenty of parking spaces and the car-wash guy asked the Dutch guy to move several times. Starting with nice requests, and ending with threats. Finally, after blocking access to the man’s business for quite some time, the Dutch guy got up (complaining loudly) and moved his car. This did not end his obnoxious behavior. But the car-wash guy, and his friends, carrying machetes, did. The Dutch guy went to the hospital, and nobody felt sorry for him. The moral to this story, Malaysians will eventually get ticked off and spring into action – especially if you are a former colonial overlord.

July 11
Pat is actually going to work a full day today, as I have my afternoon planned out. I’m going to take the afternoon tour to Templer Park and frolic in the waterfalls. I call to make a reservation and am told that we need at least two people to do a tour, and so far, no one else is signed up for the afternoon. Can I get down to the MATIC in the next half hour to make the morning jaunt? I call Pat, who zips over from the embassy and deposits me at the MATIC.

Templer Park is named for some guy whose last name was Templer. He thought it was a pretty swell spot, and thought it should be preserved. Templer Park is huge, and there are real wild animals in it, but people go there for the giant waterfall. Splashing down the big, forest covered, monkey infested hill, the water pools often in secluded and shady spots, perfect for frolicking.

I almost get to the top, but the last path is trash strewn, and I figure I’m fine where I am. Using my sarong (bought in Cherating) I do a quick change from my modest shorts and T-shirt into my swimsuit. I wade in the cold water, then go up to my chin, then figure – what the heck it’s not like my hair looks good anyway – and submerge. As I float on my back with the water pouring down and the forest swaying above me I actually start laughing aloud. I am in paradise, and can ignore the bits of trash.

While I am in the park I notice a lot of park employees hauling out bag after bag of garbage, and there are several small fires going where trash is being burned. For the most part, if you stay on the main paths, the park is very clean.

I move to another pool further down the hill. I’m happily enjoying my soak, when a park employee (male) comes over and makes himself comfortable. He keeps pointing to another little pool and I keep saying, “No, I’m fine here.” However, since I’m sitting on a rock with the rapids splashing me, and he starts to smoke, then takes off his shirt, I begin to feel like his own personal piece of cheesecake. I get up, wrap my sarong around me, and depart. He is not happy.

And finally, I feel immodest. Now, I am wrapped from chest to ankles in my sarong, and you really can’t see anything. But the park is full of men (in shorts and T-shirts). The few women around are going in fully clothed or watching the men. And maybe because I’m a westerner, or because my shoulders are exposed or my hair is wet, or maybe just because that smarmy guy got to me, I am actually very embarrassed every time I pass a guy or a group of guys.

So, I wander down some of the more secluded paths, following the monkeys. There I find trash (big surprise), a guy swimming in his BVD’s (didn’t need to see that – though he was certainly proud), and lots of couples in “close proximity” which is illegal in Malaysia. As far as I can figure out, “close proximity” can mean everything from holding hands or having sex out of wedlock. Most of what I saw was young couples (fully clothed) sitting together, holding hands or leaning against one another. Not even a kiss.

I find the lady’s room and change back into my shorts and T-shirt. The toilets, while very clean, are just holes in the floor with the hose to clean you off. I decline to use the facilities, but my shoes have muddied up the stall floor, so I do use the hose to clean up after myself.

By the way, lots of butterflies (Malaysia has over 300). And, what I thought was a blossom bud from a tree, but turned out to be some sort of crawly thing. It was taking a nap in my bag. I shook out my shirt and sent it flying.

This tour guide (Ravi) is very good. He will ask if we have any questions, and if we don’t, he suggests some (but won’t answer them until someone on the tour finally gives in). He makes jokes, and asks people what they plan to do for the rest of the day. Usually the vans will take you back to your hotel. But an Arabian couple (women clothed in black from head to toe) wants to hit Little India, so he takes us there. Everyone gets off the van except me. I’ve done Little India. I want to go back to the MATIC. From there I’ll walk over to the Petronas Towers and do some shopping in the fabulous, incredible mall.

So, it’s just Ravi and me on the way back to the MATIC. And he’s very nice. It had already been established that I was the only unmarried, unfertile person in the tour van, and now our conversation turns toward the social differences between Malaysia and the US. Simply put, no way could I have gotten to 34 unmarried and childless in Malaysia. Ravi was at one point in love with a Malaysian four years older than he. He is Hindu. So, his mother wouldn’t allow the marriage. He married who he was told to and had children. So now, he stays out as late as he can every night so that he doesn’t have to go home. Not so great. Anyway, we say goodbye at the MATIC, and I have a feeling I could have had a date that night, but there’s not that much of a future in an unhappily married Hindu.

I walk over to Petronas Towers the tallest (second tallest, third tallest) building in the world (depending on who your speaking to). Built by the Petronas Oil Company, the twin towers look like a stack of records, toped by 78’s, topped by 45’s, topped by compact discs, topped by quarters with a big spire on top. The 5 levels represent the Five Pillars of Islam. The stainless steel is from the US and comes with a 99-year guarantee. One tower was built by Japan, and the other tower was built by Korea. They are surrounded by fabulous gardens, which I looked at, but did not walk around in (far too hot).

The Petronas towers house a shopping mall of epic proportions. Every store you find in a mall here in the US you can find there. Tiffany, Benneton, Esprit. I was massively uninterested. I grabbed a Whopper at Burger King and used one of the many bathrooms. Then I went to Isetan. Isetan is a Japanese department store. I bought some English-language books, looked at some very pricey Asian-style tops, and then made the mistake of wandering into handbags. Bought 3. But they are nothing like anything I have seen in New York. A green rectangle made of some cloth that no one can figure out, a metallic blue bag by some Italian designer I’ve never heard of, and a small light blue bag that was too cute to pass up. Then I went back to a shoe store that I had wandered through before called Vincci, and picked up a pair of grey flats for about $8.00 American.

So, now I have three plastic bags of goods, and I’m sitting outside looking at the garden (because it’s too hot to consider walking around in it) when I notice, I’m the only person carrying shopping bags. And, when you consider I can fit all my purchases into one bag, it’s even odder. The mall is full of people, but no one seems to be buying anything. The tour guide Ravi had warned me I would pay more at the Petronas Mall then anywhere else in KL. Oh well, as an obnoxiously rich American, it was cheap to me.

Took a taxi home (too hot to walk) and took a dip in the pool. Once back at Pat’s I did laundry, some quick mending on a hook and eye, and stitched up the shoulder straps of a little sundress I had brought. After seeing the incredibly immodest women wearing spandex and tube tops at the Petronas Mall, I have decided to let my shoulders be free tonight. But, the straps on the sundress tend to fall down, and I’m not that wild and crazy.

Pat returns home after a full and exciting day of work. We get ready to head out. Tonight we are going to the Hawker stand known for it’s sizzling steak, machete wielding car washers, and Rusty the Rat. Pat always sees a rat at this particular stand, and in order to keep coming, she tells herself that it’s a pet. We are going with Leo and Ann, a career foreign service couple. Leo is retired and working as a civilian employee of the embassy. Ann is retiring next year.

Turns out that the sizzling steak counter is closed. Why? No reason. There are lots of other counters/stalls at this Hawker stands, but we decide to head off to the second choice.

At the second choice we get all sorts of stuff. The hand-washing sink is in the shape of a waterfall, and Wheel of Fortune (in Malaysian) is on the TV. We try to guess the puzzles, but it’s pretty hard considering we don’t speak the language. I also get my first look at terribly tacky Muslim art. Now I thought this was something that Christians did. You know, taking a copy of “The Last Supper” and turning it into a clock. But now I’ve seen pages of the Koran reproduced in glitter and turned into a clock. So, I know that bad taste is nondenominational.

At dinner, and afterwards back at Pat’s, Leo and Ann discuss their many years in the Foreign Service. I learn which political appointees were drunks. Which political appointee actually tried to fire embassy staff when they refused to break the law upon her order. What it’s like to work in the Luxembourg embassy as opposed to the Paris embassy. And that Shirley Temple Black actually knew what she was doing, and had a good reputation.

July 12
Airport Number 7, Singapore – yes we’re off to Singapore. Land of no gum chewing, no graffiti, no leaving your toilet un-flushed, and no drugs. Pat and I are both worried that there won’t be enough to do in Singapore (hah!). I am worried about curbing my natural tendencies to jaywalk and cross against lights.

We get to Singapore and there are no drug searches. No problems at immigration. You know, all through this trip no one has searched my bags. No dogs have nuzzled my purse. I’m beginning to think that I could have brought a whole kilo of cocaine into Asia sitting atop my head and they would have just waived me through.

However, I am not willing to test this theory.

Our cab driver is friendly, and his English is ok. We are staying at the YMCA, and he knows where to go. As we drive into Singapore we are greeted by beautifully landscaped highways with blossoming trees overhanging three lanes going east and three lanes going west. Somehow, what should be a ribbon of concrete has a charm to it. No billboards. No ads at all really. Except on the cabs. They are motoring advertisements. Our cab driver tells us that Singapore is great and that we are going to have a great time.

The YMCA is shrouded in scaffolding made of sticks and held together with basket weavings. I’m not kidding. I took a picture. In Malaysia, this sort of scaffolding would not have surprised me, but here, in oh-so modern Singapore, it’s a bit of a shock. I’ll later see the same scaffolding in some dioramas at a Singapore museum. I guess if it worked in the 1880’s there’s no reason to change it for the millennium. The YMCA is very active (language lessons, two-step lessons) and clean. Our room is small, but has a really nice bathroom with a great shower. The pillows on the bed are perfectly rectangular pieces of stiff foam. Pat will get a neck-ache.

We head out. I’m baring my shoulders. Singapore may be a sort of benevolent dictatorship that has no trial by jury but at least it’s not a theocracy. No religious police. Porn and prostitution are not allowed, but there’s no law against close proximity.

Singapore was originally going to be part of Malaysia, but after much soul-searching, pulled out of the alliance. Malaysians sort of shrug and say, “Oh those Singaporeans, they’re so snobby.”

Singaporeans say, “Thank God we have no state religion! Oh, and we weren’t about to carry Malaysia’s debt.”

There is not a lot of advertising (except on cabs), but there are billboards proclaiming how great Singapore is, and how great it is to be Singaporean. Talk about a melting-pot mentality. Singapore celebrates its diversity (in a sort of overbearing-obnoxious way) and religious freedom. The Independence Day celebrations were coming up in a few weeks, and Pat and I assumed, from the preparations, that it must be a big anniversary. You know, 100 years or something like that. Nope, they do this kind of party every year. They’re just so glad to be free and making money.

Singapore went a little crazy with Urban Renewal, so there’s very few old buildings or old neighborhoods left. Now things are being protected and restored – which brings us to The Chimes. It was a Catholic Church, School, and Orphanage. No longer being used, it was going to be torn down. But a “save the Chimes” movement managed to rescue the complex, and now it’s full of restaurants and shops.

Pat and I decided to treat ourselves, and went to Shrooms Restaurant. Very, very nice. We were the worse dressed patrons in the place, but the staff didn’t care. The meal was excellent, the dessert was marvelous, and the service was superb without be obsequies.

Off on the Colonial Walk. We saw old churches, old theatres, took a boat ride, saw the MerLion (Singapore’s mythical creature mascot), and passed the Pedang (where they were preparing for the Independence Day celebrations). The Pedang is where the Brits used to play cricket, and the old cricket club still sits at one end. It’s no longer the all white bastion of British superiority it used to be. I’m sure that if, in the New Multi-Culti Singapore, someone tried to keep out a potential non-white member they would be thrown into prison with no trial.

During the Japanese Occupation, the English men were lined up on one side of the Pedang, the women and the children on the other, and then they were marched off. Most of them died either doing slave labor or just wasting away in prison camps. Most of the Chinese were just shot. The lucky ones lived in constant fear. The Japanese tried to recruit Hindus into regiments (the theory being that India was trying to win Independence from England, so Japan and India should be natural allies) and I’m guessing from the one photo I saw in a museum, they had some limited success.

Note: Our tour book had said that Singapore glosses over the Japanese occupation in order not to offend the Japanese, who are big trading partners. The writer of the tour book said that some official document on the history of Singapore only gave the occupation 3 pages. Imagine my surprise to discover information on the Japanese occupation … EVERYWHERE I LOOKED. Call me crazy, but I think the Singaporeans are still a little peeved.

Another note: Couldn’t find anything about the result of the Hindu Regiments. Something tells me that probably caused some hard feelings. If there was anything missing from the history exhibits, it was more information on this.

So, after walking all over, and sweating away, Pat and I went to see the Raffles Hotel. Now this is British Colonialism the way it should be. It’s a big, beautiful, white Victorian building with needless gee-gaws sticking up out of the architecture. The doorman is dressed in an Indian uniform straight out of Johnny Quest. There are bars, poolrooms, fountains, ballrooms, and scads of tradition around every corner. The last tiger shot in Singapore was shot in (or under it wasn’t too clear) the bar of the poolroom. The Singapore Sling was invented at Raffles by the Chinese bartender, who fled when the Japanese arrived taking the secret recipe with him. He came back after the war was over, and wrote the recipe down (for the first time!) for an American serviceman. That first known written copy of Singapore Sling recipe is displayed at the Raffles Museum.

I bought a snow globe. $39.90 Singaporean. $23.63 American.

After slugging down two Singapore Slings apiece, and eating some rather small hard peanuts in the Long Bar, Pat and I headed back to the YMCA. I don’t think we ate dinner (we had eaten a big lunch). I noticed small spots on my legs. Yes, it’s the last sickness of the trip. THE RASH!

Some thoughts on THE RASH. I once had a similar rash about three years ago after having Thanksgiving Dinner at a friend’s. I assumed it was caused by a spice. The rash was all over my body (except my face) and did not itch. The doctor gave me sulfur for it. Also, a few years latter, I got a small outbreak on my arms while mixing salad at God’s Love We Deliver (where I volunteer). Since the food is for AIDs patients, I called the Chef over to see if we would have to dump all the salad out – you don’t want to infect people with no immune system, after all. He said, “Oh, that’s just chef’s rash, you’ve reacted to a spice. It’ll go away.” And it did.

This rash was very similar, though not as extreme. It concentrated on my upper thighs and on my arms around the elbows, though dots did occur all over. So, I thought it was caused by something I ate at Shrooms. Pat thought it was a heat-induced rash, which makes sense because the heat caused the rash to itch like crazy. Latter, I thought it might be a side affect of the drugs I was taking for my ear-infection. Whatever. It was there. It itched in the heat.

I was also still suffering from several nasty mosquito bites that I had picked up all over Malaysia. Pat never got bit. I was eaten alive. So, if you ever visit Malaysia, and the locals are not getting bit, ignore their blemish free skin and spray on the OFF.

So, we head out of the YMCA to hail a cab and go to the Night Safari. It’s rushing hour (the Malaysian/Singaporean way of saying rush hour) and cabs are hard to come by. So we go over to a hotel, and have a doorman hail us a cab.

This is where we met Ari, The Fabulous Cab Driver and Guide to Singapore Extraordinary. If you ever go to Singapore, you will want this guy to take you on a tour. I have his card.

Ari, The Fabulous Cab Driver takes us off to The Night Safari. Some comments on The Night Safari. It is a private enterprise open only at night. All the animals are on the endangered list and breeding away. In some cases, the breeding has gone so well that they’ve had to separate the males and the females. There are no “cages.” The residents of the Safari are kept in their areas by the clever use of big pits (hidden by bushes), water, and the occasional fence. You can ride the tram or walk (the best way is a combination of both). If you walk, the path leads you up to bluffs overlooking the lions or tigers or giraffes. You can’t feed the animals, you cannot get close enough to touch them, but you are close enough to be grateful that the tiger is eating what looks to be a goat and not you.

Everyone who has ever been to Singapore said, “You’ve got to go to the Night Safari.” Everyone is right. This was terrific. Great. Fantastic. Incredible. I wish we had seen the Giant Sloth, but he wasn’t out that night.

Out of the Night Safari and back into Ari’s cab. Ari takes Pat and me on a whirlwind tour of Singapore at night. We go through China Town (where some of the old buildings still stand) down Arab Street, where a Hindu Temple out of Disney film stands among the stores and shops. We go to the highest point in Singapore, where a cable car begins, stretching down to the Singaporean World Trade Center, and off to Sentosa Island, Singapore’s own little Disney Land.

Ari fills us in on the social order of Singapore. When you start working, a certain amount of your income is taken out of your paycheck and put into the housing allowance. When you get married, and have 10,000 Singaporean dollars in your housing account, you can use that as a down payment on a government-built flat. What if you don’t get married? Well, I don’t know. I don’t think anyone in Singapore makes it past 25 without getting married (see Malaysia). Eighty percent of Singaporean’s live in government-built housing. These are big apartment complexes, usually set back in landscaped gardens, which gives everyone light and greenery.

You get to pick where you want to live, and you can buy straight from the government, or privately. Ari and his wife bought their flat about 15 years ago for S$60,000, and they’ve paid it off. Now it’s worth S$250,000. He could sell, but in today’s market S$250,000 doesn’t buy much. He said the real estate market has gone through the roof. I said, it’s the same in New York City.

So, you can buy your apartment through the government, or privately, but everyone starts out with the same down payment. You pay into the housing allowance all your life, even if you are one of the few people to own a private home. After you get your 10,000 down payment, the housing allowance money goes into maintenance. None of the apartment buildings looks run down. None of the landscaping has gone to pot. Coming in, Pat and I saw what we thought was a brand new development next to an old development. Nope, each of the buildings in the old development was being completely remodeled.

Singapore is incredibly safe. Ari said that a woman could walk down the street in a bikini at 3 in the morning, no problem. Not having a state religion, Singaporean women benefit from a government that does not consider females to be the cause of all male sin. In short, if you rape a woman, you die. She tempted you? Too bad. And since there is no trial by jury, even simple harassment is kept to a minimum.

As we stand on the highest point in Singapore, surrounded by a park, where people are walking in near-complete darkness at midnight, Ari points out Sentosa and tells us about the dancing fountain, museum, water park, beach, hotels, bike paths, aquarium, butterfly park, and erupting volcano. Pat and I decide that’s where we will go tomorrow.

July 13
Sentosa, home of the dancing fountain, museum, water-park, beach, hotels, bike paths, aquarium, butterfly park, and erupting volcano is our destination for the day. Sentosa means paradise. Heck, it probably means, “way to bilk tourist of money.” Who cares, it’s fun.

We take a cab to the Singaporean World Trade Center and grab a cable car. Fun, fun, fun. You can pick your language if you want a tape-recorded tour, or you can listen to music, or you can mute the damn thing.

Sentosa is where the British surrendered Singapore to the Japanese. Four years later, the Japanese surrendered to the British. That building now houses a museum, where Pat and I will get so involved with the dioramas (this part of the world loves dioramas) that we will lose our tour group and have to join another.

Singaporean history is fascinating. It’s all about business. Who were the great merchants? What was their product? What charitable institutions did they found or belong to? What schools did they build? What church, temple, mosque did they endow? What government post did they eventually serve in (no one is a career politician in Singapore)? What about the people who didn’t become great merchants? How did they make money? And let’s not forget the women who labored, made money, and inspired the names of butterflies. How did all these people of different cultures and religions join together to build this fantastic, great, entrepreneurial city, Singapore (insert cheer here)?

And since Singapore flaunts is multiculturalism, all the money-making folk of Singapore are equally represented. The Hindu miners brought as slave labor by the British, who grew to be an important part of modern day Singapore. The British overlords, now friends and allies, who grew to be an important part of modern day Singapore. Other westerners, who grew to be an important part of modern day Singapore. The Chinese, especially the Aw brothers who invented Tiger Balm, all who grew to be an important part of modern day Singapore.

From there we move onto the Japanese occupation. We learn how incredibly stupid and unprepared the British were. (My favorite quote from a British officer had to do with the Japanese being to short and slanty-eyed to be a threat to the British. Reminds me of the Confederate stand that a gentleman was worth 10 Yankees.) How everyone suffered. Who was forced into slave labor. Who was shot. Who was terrorized. No details spared. And of course, how the occupation really hurt business is also stressed.

Then it’s off to liberation! Yippee! Then independence! Hurray! We learn how the original leader of a free Singapore was heart-broken to leave the newly formed Malaysia (they play the videotape of his television appearance in a continuous loop. It’s very moving). Ahh… what might have been.

Then it’s off to the festivals of Singapore. Since we have so many cultures and religions in multicultural Singapore (and we’re all so happy to be here!), there are a lot of festivals. Several different New Years. Gobs of religious celebrations. Wedding ceremonies galore.

Next it’s the Aquarium! Then off to the orchid garden where we feed carp. Here’s the butterfly farm (not that great – I like the one here in New York better).

Then we’re back at the cable car. We are too tired to do the volcano, the beach, the monorail, the water-park, etc. etc. We decide to get ice-cream floats. Then, after downing those, we get sandwiches.

Suddenly, Singapore becomes Malaysia. I order a chicken salad sandwich on a bagguette. They don’t have bagguettes. I try a roll. They don’t have rolls. I try a croissant. No croissants. I finally ask what do they have. White or wheat bread. My chicken salad is sliced off of what I assume to be a chicken salad loaf. I get cucumbers, tomatoes, and some mayo. As I look at my thin, cucumber-topped chicken-salad-loaf sandwich I think, “The British were here.”

I forget what Pat got, but we were hungry, so the sandwiches tasted good. We sat on a terrace, overlooking Sentosa, the port of Singapore, and a really big, healthy looking mouse who romped among the tables eating his fill.

We hopped the cable cars, grabbed a cab, and got back to the YMCA.

Still had a few hours before Pat had to catch a cab back to the airport, and back to KL.

So, we went to the Museum.

First, we checked out the dioramas. These were different from any other dioramas we had seen. They were very small. But they told the history of Singapore very well. Raffles arrives to set up a British trading post. The Chinese come. The Hindus come. Lot’s of business happens. The Japanese invade. The British get Singapore back. Singapore wins independence. Hurray!

Then it’s off to an exhibit on the Chinese Secret Societies. Next come several photos of Singapore taken in the 1940’s and 50’s by a former director of the museum. He was a westerner, and took tons of photos and movies, documenting all the various cultures of Singapore. They really are fascinating. We skipped the jade exhibit.

Oh, I can’t remember from which diorama I picked up this tid-bit of information, but here it is. In the world-wide depression of the 1930’s Singapore suffered, but managed to struggle on. European banks continued to loan to Western merchants in Singapore, but Chinese, Malay and Hindu merchants were screwed. Banks called in their loans, refused to extend credit, etc., etc. Because of this racist policy, Singaporean merchants started Singapore’s own banking system. Never again would multi-cultural, religiously diverse, powerful Singapore have to rely on those jerks in Europe who thought they were so superior just because they get sunburned out here. Hooray!

Finally, it’s time for Pat to depart. She has had a good time with me, but I can tell she’s ready to get back to her own life. Still, I get a bit stuffy when it’s time for her to go. “See you in two years!” I yell, as the cab pulls away.

I walk around Singapore some. Checking out their big malls, some shops, look for Harry Potter (sold out), buys some last minute gifts, take some pictures, grab some McDonalds and head back to my room. I inhale my burger and fries. Down my Coke. Take a long shower in the terrific YMCA shower, and go to bed. Have to be up early for the flight home.

July 14, 2000
Always worried that I’m going to face unexpected problems, I leave for the airport at 5:30 AM. The airport is about twenty minutes away, and my flight doesn’t leave until 7AM. Oh well. My cab driver is Chinese and he asks me right off the bat if I’m married. I’m used to this now.

“Yep.”

“Any babies?”

“Nope.”

“Really? Why not?”

Ok, this is new. So I think fast.

“I’ve only been married a year.”

“Only a year! How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

Big mistake. I find myself making up a story about how my husband and I met through mutual friends at a bar. This is incredible to my driver. I went out with someone I met in a bar? What was I, an unmarried girl doing in a bar? Where is my husband? He let me come to Singapore myself? To visit my sister? Is he crazy?

I was very happy to get out of that cab.

My airline is not open yet.

I putz around. I go through security. Finally, some security! I am not carrying drugs. My airline opens and I check in.

Three hours late I’m in Hong Kong and starving. The breakfast on my flight was an omelet with some kind of meat. I think it was that chicken salad roll. I find a copy of Harry Potter and buy it for 165 Hong Kong dollars ($21.80 American). I find my gate. I’ve got an hour. I go get a hamburger and fries.

Just thinking about this hamburger and fries, ordered and eaten in the Sky Dance restaurant, it enough to make me gag. It was the foulest, most horrible thing I’ve ever eaten. I would rather munch on an entire chicken salad loaf then to ever eat a hamburger again in Hong Kong. It was gray. It measured 1/8 of an inch in thickness. It was mushy. It bore no resemblance to a cow. Oh, and it was a cheeseburger. I think the over-sweet lumpy mayonnaise on the burger may have been the cheese.

The fries were ok.
And the lemon tea was instant.

I haven’t mentioned lemon tea, which I drank the entire time I was in Malaysia. It is brewed tea, with an entire lemon squeezed into it, and a spoonful of sugar. It’s terrific. Well, in Hong Kong, I swear they are serving Lipton’s Instant Lemon Tea. Icky.

Wanting to vomit, I go to the ladies room and have to settle for brushing my teeth twice in order to remove every bit of Hong Kong burger from my mouth. Trying to cleanse my esophagus, I eat a granola bar.

From Hong Kong we fly to Vancouver. Getting on they check our passports. I order the pasta when the lunch comes around, and the flavorless rigatoni in standard tomato sauce is ambrosia. I deplane in Vancouver (Why stay on the plane?) and have my passport checked. I see a Starbucks. They take American money. I swoon. I get an ice tea. I get Canadian money back. I have the time, so I go change all my Singaporean and Canadian money into American dollars. I try about six times to get the woman doing the changing to take my extra coins for the can clearly marked “all change accepted” for some Canadian charity, but she keeps looking at me like I’m crazy.

Our passports are checked again for boarding. The seat between me (aisle) and the nice Canadian man who is going to visit his daughter in New York (window) is empty. So, I stick my elbows out, wrap my sarong around my shoulders, wrap the blanket around my legs, and go to sleep.

We take a detour to avoid a big storm, but manage to get into JFK on time. Deplaning they check our passports (who were they looking for?). Luggage takes forever. Customs is a breeze. I hop the bus back to Grand Central, and take the subway from there. I’m not sure when I got home, but it was twenty minutes past midnight when I went out for a slice of pizza.

I pop in the videotape to catch the episodes of SEX IN THE CITY, OZ and THE SOPRANOS that I missed. I sit on the couch, letting the cat fur attach itself to me, and reflect on my trip.

Cathay Pacific is a fine airline, but stick with the pasta. Cathay Pacific gives you your own little movie screen and several channels to choose from. I have seen A BUG’S LIFE, HERCULES, THE NEXT BEST THING, some of ERIN BROKOVITCH. Now I don’t have to rent them. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is the perfect book to take on a twenty-five hour plane trip (I’ve only two more chapters to go). Quilting doesn’t work on planes. Don’t bother bringing it. Carry granola bars. Don’t carry fruit. Always use insect repellent. Long pants and air-conditioning are the best cure for a rash. Thank God you live in a country where your mother doesn’t pick your spouse (no offense intended there, Mom). And finally, a sarong is a traveling girl’s best friend.

I had a great time in Asia. I think I’ll head back for Christmas 2001.